Completing the Puzzle
by dream's sister
Summary: I always felt we weren’t seeing all of what went on after scenes and during transitions between Jo and Laurie, so this is a compilation of those moments left hanging, and the tantalizing might-have-beens Alcott likes to torture us with. Jo/Laurie.
1. Chapter 1: Despair and Fever

A/N: this starts right after Laurie's told Jo that he's already sent a telegram to Washington, and Marmee is set to come home that very night.

Disclaimer—most unfortunately, I am not Louisa May Alcott, nor do I own any of her stuff. Having said that, the very first line in this story is hers, not mine—I added it for transition purposes.

Completing the Puzzle

Chapter 1: Despair and Fever

…

"Laurie, you're an angel, how shall I ever thank you?"

He looked down at her standing before him, his wild Jo, with her thin cheeks, drawn of late, now flushed with wine and sudden excitement. They still bore the marks of her tears, despite her fairly dripping handkerchief, but her eyes, wet and clean, shone with a warm trust that split the poor boy's heart straight down the middle. He stared at her for a moment, wondering if now was really the right time for what he was feeling, but found that he couldn't help himself. He gently caught both her hands in his, and said quietly as he pulled her slowly towards him, "I did say I'd send in my bill, by and by."

Jo unwittingly opened her mouth and gasped a very little bit as she found herself suddenly standing pressed against Laurie, feeling his warmth through his shirt—even more comforting to her tired, wrung-out soul than the wine now coursing through her veins. This time, though, she had not flown at her boy—and she thought from what she could see in his dark eyes (how tenderly they looked into hers!) that his actions were induced by rather different feelings; a thought which was confirmed when he bent his head and firmly placed his lips on her still-open mouth.

She felt herself begin to stiffen, but realized in a rush that, in spite of all her prickles, she didn't want to object. She felt reckless, as if she'd been falling all this long dreadful night and now, at last, she had reached the bottom, and found something unexpected. Her limbs, loosened by wine and something else, relaxed, and she let go of his hands while lifting hers somewhat desperately, letting him circle his arms around her back and waist, mouth steady and strong against her own. She felt a wave of warmth pass through her, felt a pain throbbing behind her eyes build and release. As Laurie kissed her, all her troubles and worries rose, angry and boiling, to the surface—Father's illness, Marmee's long absence, Amy's stay with irascible Aunt March, the fear that her dearest Beth would leave them, and her own fears of inadequacy and inability to carry on alone—they all surged up out of her at once, and somewhere in between her hot tears and Laurie's lips, they broke, and floated upward as she trembled in the arms of her friend.

Feeling Jo shaking, Laurie let his face linger over hers for a moment longer, then gently laid her head on his shoulder and stroked her hair.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I…I…c-can't do it alone. Without Bethy I can't…I won't b-be able to…without her…she's my conscience, Teddy, my good angel, she can't die—" with a gasp, Jo hid her face in his chest.

"Hush, hush…it's all right…" Laurie murmured, rubbing his hand to and fro across her back. "Rest on me, Jo dear," he whispered into the dark, "I'm here."

And poor, proud Jo clutched at him, quaking as if in a storm, sobbing and gasping, while he in turn clung to her as silent tears ran down his face and into her hair. They stood like that for some time, each holding the other up as they gave each other strength.

Eventually, Jo's breathing steadied, and there was no catch in her voice as she said, "Teddy, dear?"

"Yes?"

She pulled away from him and held his hands for a moment as she took them from around her. "Thank you," she whispered, gazing with a frank bravery up into his eyes, before she sat back in her chair without another word to wait for Marmee's arrival.

Laurie sat as well after a moment, and silently took into his lap Beth's little brown hood from the table where Jo had previously laid her head in despair, holding it as if in prayer.

Together, they waited silently until, hours later, Mrs. March arrived, face tight with worry. As she met them in the hall she said nothing, but gave Laurie a grateful look and Jo's hand a soft squeeze, hurrying straight to Beth's room.

Laurie and Jo followed slowly several steps behind, and so did not see the wave of joyous relief that broke over the mother's face when she beheld her daughter, not ridden with delirious fever fantasies as she had expected, but breathing peacefully, having passed into a natural sleep in the wee hours of the morning. Mrs. March sat by the bed and smoothed the tangled hair that lay scattered and sweat-soaked over the pillow from the fever fits. She tenderly lifted the small hand and, eyes closed, kissed it softly, keeping gentle hold of it after replacing it beside Beth on the bed.

Jo, faint and incoherent with thanks and happiness, stumbled into the hall and sank to the floor, pressing her apron against her face, breathing slowly, too exhausted to cry again. Laurie remained by her side until dawn broke, the sun warming the night's ragged victims with new hope and warmth, and bathing the beloved invalid's face in a rosy glow as her eyelids fluttered open. Her first sight was her mother's smiling face—the next, a lovely, windblown white rose, opened in the night, which her sisters had placed by her bedside. She smiled, peaceful at last, and sighed happily, saying as she exhaled, "Oh, Marmee, you're here!"

...

In the joyous morning bustle of getting breakfast and tea on for Marmee and Beth, neither Jo nor Laurie mentioned what had taken place in the despairing hours of that night, and the events went unspoken, though not forgotten, for some time to come.

…


	2. Chapter 2: The Alpine Maid

A/N: I think I like this chapter better than the last…it's certainly longer.

Disclaimer: I am not Louisa May Alcott, but I did steal her poem "The Jungfrau to Beth," and I don't pretend that I wrote it.

Chapter 2: The Alpine Maid

…

There was a rattling on the stairs outside the garret—Jo furrowed her brow in annoyance, squinting over her pen and inkblot as she scribbled. A moment later the interrupting footsteps slowed and the door creaked open hesitantly, revealing the face of a somewhat windswept and weatherbeaten young neighbor, who sneezed, then inquired good-naturedly, "Does genius burn, Jo?"

The ink-spotted authoress spared her visitor a glance, then bent over her paper again, sighing and saying distractedly, "All right then, come have a look if you must—but I give you fair warning, I just can't seem to get it right."

Laurie shut the door and unwound his scarf (which rather dilapidated article had been left too near the youngest of Beth's kittens, and now bore many of Jo's none-too-subtle darns and patches) and dropped it, along with his coat, in a chair. He took from Jo the page over which she had been laboring, and, with a flourish, began reading—

"The Jungfrau to Beth.

"God Bless you, dear Queen Bess!

May nothing you dismay,

But—"

"No, no, no, read it in your own head!" Jo interrupted, upsetting an inkstand and diving to mop up the puddle. "I'm thinking, and it's been running round and round _my_ head as it is."

Laurie promptly sat and continued reading, silently and with an expression altogether too solemn to be trustworthy. Jo watched with narrowed eyes until he looked up. "Well," he said, "I like it fine. What's the trouble?"

"It isn't done, of course. "A Mont Blanc in a pail"—that's no way to resolve a poem. It needs another stanza. I was thinking, "Their dearest love my makers laid/within my frozen breast"…and then I've no earthly idea."

He tilted his head in thought. "Say, "Within my breast of snow"—frozen sounds too…brittle. And tragic."

"Hmph." Jo frowned. "But I still haven't got my last two lines."

"Well, the next one's got to rhyme with laid…" Laurie mused, leaning back in his chair, "stayed, raid, paid, made…maid! She's a maid, isn't she? Our snow-goddess?"

"Maid…" muttered Jo. "Accept it, and the frozen maid—"

"No frozen."

She scowled. "What then?"

"Alpine. Alpine maid. It's two syllables."

"So then,

Their dearest love my makers laid,

Within my breast of snow,

Accept it, and the Alpine maid—"

"From Laurie and from Jo!" Laurie broke in triumphantly, grinning as he thrust the poem back at her.

Jo bent to finish off the verse, immediately straightened up again exclaiming, "Christopher Columbus!" as she blotted furiously at a spreading ink stain from a puddle she had neglected; then, once certain all was well, bent over it again and wrote the last four lines, amid much laughter from Laurie at her antics. Ignoring this, she read over the piece with a critical eye, nodded, and rolled it up. Taking off her black woolen hat and pinafore, she brandished the Jungfrau's message to Beth and pulled Laurie towards the stairs, crying, "Come! Let's be off to our Alpine maid!"

…

Some hours later, after much labor and several snow-fights, the Unquenchables, as the pair had been dubbed due to enthusiasm, stood back to admire their handiwork. A fine, stately nymph of a snow-girl stood before the Marches' front window, bearing (and draped with) the entire family's gifts for Beth, complete with Jo's poem bursting from her lips, rewritten carefully upon a fragile paper streamer.

Jo squinted at the sculpture. "Don't you think her face could use a bit more detail?"

Laurie groaned. "Surely you're joking."

"No, I mean, look, just there, her nose is a little—"

"Jo! It's dark as Egypt out here! I can barely see her _head,_ don't go fretting about her _nose_, for goodness' sake."

"Beg pardon, but I was doing nothing of the sort. A little criticism never hurt a body. It's too nice a night for fretting, anyway," Jo declared, throwing her head back and breathing in the fresh, sharp winter air. "Christmas Eve," she sighed happily.

"And all's well," Laurie added, looking over at her as he thought of Beth. She beamed at him, then, on impulse, sang out to the stars the first Christmas carol that came to mind—

"God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! Remember Christ our Savior—"

"—was born on Christmas Day!" Laurie joined in with gusto, and linking arms, the two cavorted around the garden, singing with exaggerated drama as they circled their work of art. As the merry pair came to the close of the chorus, kicking up snow, they strayed a little too near the snow-maiden—Jo, gesticulating broadly to the last strain of "O-o, ti-i-dings of co-omfort and, joooooy!" lost her footing with a shriek, and had it not been for Laurie's timely rescue, would have tumbled straight into the poor sculpture. As it was, the Alpine maid's sigh of relief remained frozen on her lips, and Laurie, seized by sudden inspiration, took the chance to swing Jo up and around, twirling her high in the air, before he set her, breathless and laughing, back on her feet.

"Jo," he said once she had regained her breath, "I have a present for you."

"Well, so have I, for you, but do be patient—shouldn't it wait till morning?"

"Well, perhaps," he said with a crooked smile, "but I think this one might be better now."

She took a step back, eyeing him askance. The crafty look in his eyes was all too familiar, but there was something strange in them as well, and they shone blackly.

"What?" he asked, puzzled by her response.

"You—you haven't got a snowball behind your back or something, have you Teddy?"

He looked at her for a second, burst out laughing, then said, "No, I haven't—" and kissed her, fiercely, wrapping her in his arms as he did so.

"Oh, dear—" began the Voice of Reason in Jo's head—but this thought was immediately crowded out by a host of new sensations. This time, Laurie was not comforting a drowning Jo—in fact, Jo had rarely been happier. She had firmly put the occurrence on the night Beth's fever broke out of her mind, making excuses; it had, after all, been a time of despair. They certainly shouldn't be held accountable for their actions. But now, on Christmas Eve, out in the snow-covered, starlit night, she had not a single excuse—and here she was, kissing her best friend back.

Reaching a decision she suddenly pulled Laurie closer, roughly, and pressed her mouth against his harder, parting her lips that were tingling because his were hot and soft, moving against hers as his mouth opened into her own and their breath mingled in the cold clean air. His hands had settled at the base of her back—she was so warm—and they held her in, drew her deeper—was this a fever? Did she have the flu?—and just when Jo heard a noise at the edge of her thoroughly heated and confused awareness, Laurie quickly pulled his mouth away, and as light spilled out from somewhere behind them he bent his head next to hers and whispered three words which she couldn't quite hear because—

"Jo! Laurie! Marmee says come in, there's pudding if—what _are_ you doing?"

Laurie cleared his throat hastily while stepping backward and making a great show of brushing Jo off, saying, "Nearly fell into the snow-maid here—"

"He means _I_ did," Jo interrupted, "—stop brushing, Teddy, I'm fine—if it weren't for him we'd be ruined—"

"Now, don't exaggerate—"

"I'm not, it's true—but oh, don't tell Beth! It's a surprise! Amy, you shouldn't see yet either—really, Teddy, I'm _fine—_and anyway, you'll catch your death of a cold standing in the door like that—get back inside! We'll follow."

Laurie stopped brushing and stood in front of the sculpture as a shield while Jo babbled. Amy, after a curious look at the two of them, retreated inside, shaking her head at the Unquenchables, who were indeed living up to their name.

Jo and Laurie exchanged a look. Laurie started to smile, hesitantly at first, then grinning widely. He grabbed Jo's hand and pulled her up the steps and inside, into the hall, where the clamor of happy voices and clinking pudding-spoons gave an atmosphere of general cheer. As they pulled off their warm things, Jo, hiding a grin of her own, decided not to ask Laurie what he had whispered to her outside.

But, she thought, a warm feeling spreading through her as she followed him into the parlor, she had a fair idea she knew.

…


	3. Chapter 3: Nice to Know

Disclaimer: Louisa May Alcott is a genius and therefore owns all of these characters, I do not

A/N: The last two chapters occured in proper time sequence--this one comes before either of them. I'll have some others that jump around, and I'll try to let you know in case you forget the sequence the book goes.

Chapter 3: Nice to Know

…

Jo lay in bed with her face turned to the moonlight, one hand still fingering the short rough ends of her hair where it had been shorn off earlier that day. She knew that, given the choice, she would sell it all off again without a moment's hesitation. Why, if selling the nose off her face would have helped bring Father home again, safe and well, she would have done it. Besides, she prided herself on her indifference to appearances—hair was only hair, after all, and did not affirm or condemn one's character.

And yet, she couldn't help remembering the look on Laurie's face when he saw her that morning. He had stopped short in the hall, staring at her. She wondered what he had thought when he saw his best friend looking like a shorn sheep, bereft of her one beauty.

…

"Jo…" he said slowly, as if somewhat worried after her sanity.

She raised her hand to her head self-consciously, and laughed. "I sold it for Father—I was desperate to do something, and I just _couldn't_ bring myself to ask Aunt March for money, and have to listen to her wittering away about how our family has no worldly sense…" she paused, then asked anxiously, "What do you think?"

He said nothing for a moment, then very frankly, "I liked your hair."

She let out a very small sigh. "So did I."

He looked a while longer, then grinned and said cheerfully, "Well, this way we're well set to run away on one of Grandfather's ships to India, aren't we? They'll have to advertise for two boys, and we'll have capital times crossing the Atlantic with you as a fellow, just think!"

Jo brightened visibly at the thought, gazing dreamily into the distance. "Oh, what larks, Teddy, can you imagine? I'd make a first-rate lad, I know I would, and we could be ship's hands, scurrying up and down the mast, swabbing the decks, peering through the spy-glass and crying, 'Land ho! Ahoy there, sailor!'" with this last she shouted and waved her arms, miming clinging to the side of the crow's nest.

Laurie laughed and they walked into the kitchen, but she could tell from the way he watched her that, despite the joke, he was not yet quite reconciled to her loss.

…

Later, they sat by the fire, the day's bustle over, Marmee seen safely off with Mr. Brooke to Washington. Meg was in the kitchen with Hannah, and Amy and Beth had already gone to bed.

Laurie, watching Jo, noticed her frown as she stared into the flames.

"What is it?"

She started, looking guilty. "Nothing."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "I'll have it out eventually, you know I will; why not just tell now and make it easier all round?"

"Oh, all right then, you do manage to get everything out of everyone, don't you? Only don't laugh, and you must promise not to tell—I'm not vain, you know I'm not," she said quickly, looking a little worried, "and I really would do it all over again, truly—"

"Jo," he said, a smile creeping up his face, "it's your hair, isn't it?"

She looked at him miserably. "Now, don't—"

"It is! I knew it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if that's all…I thought it was your father."

"Oh, dear, it is rather terrible of me, isn't it? But Marmee's gone to Father, now, and he _shall_ get well." She rumpled up her short crop, looking quite dismal. "It's just…I was rather proud of it."

Laurie, as ordered, did not laugh. Instead, he reached over to Jo, sitting next to him on the sofa, and stroked the tousled mop, running his fingers through it and touching her face briefly. "Not to worry," he said as he took his hand away, "you're still my girl, and I'll always think you're lovely, boy's crop or no."

She shoved him playfully. "None of that! I wasn't asking for compliments, I was merely 'fessing. No silliness."

"Girls generally like compliments, you know."

"Pooh! Don't they just! Silly girls, without a whit of common sense."

"Not all of them—Meg likes compliments, and she's quite sensible."

"She's sentimental, bless her. I, on the other hand, am not. Compliments don't agree with me."

He stretched out and put his arms behind his head. "I'll remember that in the future," he said, smiling oddly.

…

Lying in bed, Jo smiled a little to herself. It was true, she didn't like compliments, they were nonsensical rubbish, really. But it was nice to know that Laurie wasn't too upset she'd cut her hair, after all…even if it didn't really have anything to do with him…

She rolled over, and as she drifted off to sleep, the feel of his hand touching her hair and her cheek came back to her, unbidden…yes, it was rather nice to know, wasn't it…

…

A/N: I have mixed feelings about this one, especially because there have been a LOT of fics about Jo's hair…what do you all think?


	4. Chapter 4: The Pickwick Plot

A/N: thanks for the reviews guys, they were all really good—especially literaryfreak's, you have no idea how encouraging that was. Please write more!! Because then I'll write more faster, and we all know that's good…

Right, so, this chapter takes place before any of the others so far, and I think my next chapter will happen right after it, before I skip in time again…there's some (minimal) foreshadowing in here, think you can pick up on it?

Disclaimer: I wish I were Louisa May Alcott. I wish I owned Laurie and Jo and all the others—because then I would have made a different ending…but as it is, I am not, and I do not own any of her wonderful characters.

Chapter 4: The Pickwick Plot

…

Laurie sat in his bedroom window, gazing at the jolly, lamplit scene in the attic of the house across the way. There was a book in his lap, but he wasn't reading it, nor even turning the pages—he was far too absorbed in the spectacle visible through the Marches' window. All four girls, dressed in badges and men's clothes that swamped Beth and Amy comically, fit Jo altogether too naturally, and made Meg look even rosier than usual by comparison, were making the most intriguing gestures and proclamations. Several reports were read aloud—Jo's most easily discerned because of her dynamic presentation—and what seemed to be a debate broke out at one point; lively conversation punctuated by the sound of a table being pounded upon, and intermittent cries of, "Gentlemen!"

This was not the first time Laurie had observed such activities on Saturday evenings—the girls had a regular ritual of it, only having missed one or two weeks for about a year. However, once having met Jo and Meg properly at the Gardiners', and having soon after had a jolly time with Jo when he'd been stuck inside with a cold, Laurie's curiosity about his neighbors had reached new heights, and he was determined to discover all he could about them.

So he watched and listened, and felt a warm glow inside his chest as he was infused with the fresh, innocent spirit of fun that the girls gave off. They laughed frequently, shrieked occasionally, and nary a pause in the reading, reciting, and declaiming was to be found. As Jo clashed the warming pan together with its cover in place of cymbals, cheering a rare but spirited declaration made by Beth, he looked on with a certain longing.

How fun it would be to have such frolics!

…

"Master Laurie?"

Laurie, sitting at the piano, looked up from the sheet music he'd been shuffling. A maid, her head poked round the door, was looking at him with an expectant expression.

"Yes?" he said, a trifle irritably—it was probably his grandfather, telling him he'd practiced enough for the day.

"Miss Jo's here to see you, with little Miss Beth—shall I show them in?"

He immediately sat up straight, and looking much more awake and cheerful than he had a moment ago, he said promptly, "Yes, of course! Tell them to come in at once!"

In the month or so that had passed since Laurie had resolved to learn as much as possible about the March girls, he was already well on his way in this goal; not least because the girls themselves were quite keen to know their neighbor better—especially Jo. The results were many comings and goings between the two families, and their friendship was blooming wonderfully.

As the maid disappeared again, he quickly swept up the mess of papers that had accumulated around him, and managed to have everything neat and tidy by the time Jo and Beth entered the room, the former armed with a manuscript.

"Here we are—and I hope we haven't interrupted your practicing?" Jo said brightly, as Laurie rose from the piano.

"Not at all—I was about to stop anyway, Grandfather does hate it when I play for too long—though of course, he doesn't mind when _you _do, Beth," he said, with a smile for the younger sister. "I assume that's why you've come?"

Beth nodded, smiling happily as she basked in the glow of the piano she loved so much.

"Right then—you make as much noise as you like in here, and Jo and I will make ourselves scarce—come along, Jo." Laurie turned and marched towards the door, holding it open for Jo and then closing it gently behind him as Beth began to play inside.

"So," he said as they headed for the stairs down the hall, "How have things been over in the land of the Marches? All well, I trust?"

"I wouldn't know," Jo said, smiling wryly, "I've been holed away scribbling for the past three days. I _was_ working on my novel, but then I had to interrupt it to do _this—_" she brandished the papers she held.

"I was going to ask about that," Laurie said, starting up the stairs, "What is it?"

"It's our newspaper," Jo declared proudly, "The _Pickwick Portfolio_. We each contribute something every week, and we've got the 'hints' section as well, weekly reports, and suchlike…it's great fun, but as I'm editor, I haven't anyone to go over _my_ pieces."

"Wouldn't Meg do it?"

"Meg _won't_ criticize properly," she said with a sigh, "she's too gentle. And the little girls are willing, but of course they're not much help. So I thought I'd bring it over today, and you could have a look, if you'd like."

"I would be honored," Laurie proclaimed in mock seriousness as he held the door to his room open for her, "to read the works of such a distinguished young authoress as yourself, Miss March."

"Excellent! I knew you wouldn't mind, and now I'll have a proper review of my style," Jo said with a satisfied air, seating herself on the rug as Laurie closed the door behind them, then joined her.

"When is the paper to be published, ma'am?"

"Tonight, good sir, so I'll thank you not to tarry in your criticism."

Laurie's eyes widened and a smile spread over his face. "Tonight, you say? Jo, is this what you all get up to in the garret every Saturday evening?"

Jo started. "How do you know we—" then she stopped and began to laugh. "You've been watching us through the window, haven't you? Same as you watch Marmee's face behind the flower pots, as you said at the Gardiners'."

Laurie reddened a trifle, but he put his hands in his pockets and replied quite honestly, "I'm sorry if it's rude—only you do sound as if you're having such fun. You wouldn't believe what I can hear, you know," he grinned.

"Oh, dear," Jo laughed. "It's all right, we don't mind—or I don't, anyway. You're right, we have our own club—the Pickwick Club, P.C. for short. I'm Augustus Snodgrass, being of a literary turn myself; Meg's the eldest, so she's Samuel Pickwick; Bethy's Tracy Tupman, on account of being round and rosy; and Amy's Nathaniel Winkle, as she's always trying to do what she can't."

Laurie chuckled. "Well, I like that! It's a perfectly grand idea, you must have wonderful larks."

Jo, her head tilted as she surveyed her friend sitting before her, noticed the wistful look in his eyes even as he smiled—and a sudden idea struck her. Why hadn't it occurred to her before? Laurie would make an excellent addition to the club ranks, and of course he'd have a jolly time with them, he always did. Wasn't this just the sort of thing friends did together, after all?

"Here, let's see your portfolio there, and I'll try to be of help," Laurie said, his hand held out for her manuscript, which she gave. He bent over it and began to read, while Jo sat, considering.

The only trouble would be getting the girls to agree—she expected Meg would be worried about being proper, as well as Amy; Beth would want Laurie to join, but she'd be too shy. How could she convince them?

"Jo," Laurie began, interrupting her thoughts, "what's this play, here, in the advertisements, the one to be performed "in the course of a few weeks"? did you write—?"

She made up her mind when he was halfway through his sentence.

"Laurie," she said suddenly—he stopped talking—"wouldn't you like to join?"

"What?"

"Join our club. I know you want to, only you're too proud to say," Jo said bluntly. "I don't know why we didn't think to invite you sooner, you'll make for a valuable member, and we could use some new blood anyhow."

He looked shocked, pleased, then worried, all in quick succession. "Will the others mind awfully?"

"Not at all, and if they fuss at first I'll bring them round!" Jo declared. "Not to worry. We'll just have to present you in the proper manner, that's all."

A slow grin spread across Laurie's face, and with a clever look in his eyes, he said, "Well, if you're sure…"

"Of course I'm sure."

"…then I might have an idea."

…

Several hours later, Laurie sat on the Marches' ragbag, concealed in the garret cupboard—that is, he would have been concealed if the door were shut; as it was he was in full view as Jo surveyed him. Dressed in Pickwick garb, complete with a much battered top hat and pipe, she would have looked rather ridiculous to the outside world—Laurie, however, thought she looked wonderful, and the flush of excitement in her cheeks gave her a look of innocent girlish charm which he found delightful to behold, despite the manly attire.

"Hmm," she said, oblivious to the look of admiration he gave her, "you need a hat. And would you care for a pipe?"

"No, don't give me a pipe, for I shall choke on it while I try not to laugh in here—the hat sounds a better idea."

"All right, then." She bent and briefly rummaged through the dressing-up box, and came up again with a green felt bowler hat, which she placed atop her victim's head. "Ta-da! I present to thee, honorable fellow Pickwick clubbers, our newest member—Sam Weller!" She gave a dramatic flourish to the empty room, addressing her imaginary audience.

Laurie started to laugh, but almost immediately Jo clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling him. "Shhhh!" she said in a hurried whisper, "I think they're coming—yes, I can hear them—now you be quiet in there, like a good boy, and don't come out till I knock!" and she shut the door on the cramped Mr. Weller with a snap, looking all too thrilled for one person.

Laurie heard a procession of boots pass his hiding place, and then the owners of said boots seat themselves around the table. It was all he could do to contain his merriment at the discussions that followed, especially as he tried to imagine what Ausgustus Snodgrass could possibly be doing to illustrate the reading of his poem, "Anniversary Ode" to make the gentlemen of the club laugh so. Eventually, however, once the reading of the paper was finished, he heard Jo make her proposition to invite him to the club—and, though it did take some persuasion, the chorus of four voices heartily crying "Ay!" warmed his heart. A moment later Jo's knock came, and Snodgrass's latest recruit burst out of the cupboard, with a red face and bright eyes, laughing aloud at last.

In the ensuing confusion of shrieks from the other three girls, he looked at Jo, who was practically glowing as she beamed down upon him, and in that moment, as he prepared to defend their prank, he knew he had never been happier.

…


	5. Chapter 5: A Baking Misadventure

Disclaimer: I make no money writing fanfiction, nor will I ever, as Little Women belongs to Louisa May Alcott.

A/N: okay, so I know I said there was a hint for this chapter in the last one--scratch that. That chapter will eventually be written, (soon, hopefully) but somehow this one got in the way and i decided to finish it and put it up for you folks to read. I mean, really, who cares about chronological order anyway? :P

(oh right, and I forgot to mention--in case you don't notice, this chapter itself isn't based on one of those "hints" or subtexts in the book--but it leads up to something that is--all shall be clear eventually)

Chapter 5: A Baking Misadventure

…

"Jo, my good fellow, what _have _you been up to? Slaying dragons?"

"Teddy! For goodness' sake, don't tease!" Jo cried, wringing her dough-covered hands as she turned to the boy who had just bounded through the kitchen door. "It's dreadfully serious, really it is."

"Mmm. So I see," he nodded towards her floury apron, disheveled hair, and the reddish smudge of cinnamon she'd spilt down her front. She was surveying the mess before her in dismay—on the table, Laurie could see flour-doused raisins scattered about, sugar attracting some inquisitive ants in the corner, melted butter overflowing from its dish, and a pitcher of souring cream complete with several flies drowning in it, as the perturbed young cook had neglected to cover it due to distraction. However, the countertop was another story entirely—it was completely covered with numerous bowls, pots, and pans, all running over with what seemed to be extremely liquid cookie dough—though really, this was just a guess on Laurie's part; the gooey substance could easily have been any number of other concoctions.

The tall lad, not at all put out by the disarray of the scene around him, strode confidently through the mess to Jo, and looked over her shoulder at the much-spattered recipe she'd been poring over. "Ah, not dragons then—oatmeal raisin cookies!' he said cheerfully. "Far more formidable foes, they are."

"Teddy," said Jo irritably, "if you aren't going to be of help, then do go away, I've quite enough to deal with here as it is."

"Not to worry, I intend to make myself useful. What shall I do first?" he looked around somewhat amusedly. "Bring on your bears, Jo!"

"Do you really know anything about baking?"

"Well, I'm afraid I can't rival Hannah, but I suppose I know a bit, and I'll do what I can. Just tell me first, what exactly went wrong here?"

Jo sighed and rubbed her aching back, further dirtying her dress. "Well, I decided to make something for Beth—she's got a cold, you know—and I did think cookies would be rather hard to make a mess of. So at first I was just going to make as many as it said in the recipe," she pointed at the book, "but I knew everyone would want some, so I doubled it, and then I thought I could bring some over to you and your grandfather, so I tripled it—only, being the blunderbuss I am, I tipped too much cream in, so it got all watery, and wouldn't stick. So I added more flour, but then the confounded stuff was far too powdery, and didn't taste like cookies anymore, besides. And _then," _her voice rose in frustration, "I put in more of all the wet ingredients, and…well…I mustn't have done the arithmetic right, for now it tastes as it should—but, oh! dear," and she waved a wild hand at the ridiculous amount of overflowing batter in front of her.

Laurie held back a laugh with difficulty, but couldn't help grinning. "Jo, dear," he began, "don't you think—" he stopped when she put her hand on her hips and glared at him fiercely.

"Don't I think _what_?" she snapped.

"Well, you've got to see the humor in the situation, I mean…look, this is rather a picture, now isn't it?"

Jo looked ready to fly at him, but she glanced round the topsy-turvy kitchen, and for a moment stood stock still without a change of expression. But Laurie thought he caught the faintest twitch at the corners of her mouth as she turned back to him and said, "Perhaps I'll see the humor once it's all cleaned up and put right—for now I refuse to give in to your teasing, Theodore Laurence, and you sha'n't laugh either, if you know what's good for you."

"Yes, ma'am," Laurie answered meekly.

"Good. Now, here's an apron—" he wisely donned it without comment, "here's a spoon—" she slapped it into his hand with a little more force than was really necessary, "and there," she said, indicating several sacks and jars amid the debris on the table, "are the ingredients."

"What shall I do?"

"Experiment—at this point we've not much to lose, and if all fails we can always give the batch to the Hummels," Jo declared, attacking a pan of drippy batter with vengeance. Laurie followed suit, manfully employing flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and far too much cinnamon in effort to make the stuff stick without tasting "bland as beans," as Jo put it.

Presently, he realized there was something missing. "Jo," he said, turning around with his hands held in the air, "where are the oats?"

She was frowning at the bowl of particularly lumpy batter that she was buried in up to her elbows, and made no reply.

"Jo?"

"What?" she said distractedly.

"The oats. Where are they?"

"Oh. There's a bag on the table, but it's nearly empty, you'll need another—there should be one in the big white jar in the pantry, on the left."

Laurie wiped off his hands on his apron and wandered into the pantry, spotting the jar in question immediately—it seemed to him that Jo hadn't done it justice when she'd said "big." Despite the large array of crockery and silverware populating the shelves and floor of the dark little pantry, the thing could not be ignored. It was a behemoth of a jar, with an ancient, thick, cracked lid larger than an oversized dinner plate, and its insides were entirely taken up by a burlap sack full of oats. Laurie wondered how long this jar had sat there—he wouldn't have been surprised if it had grown up out of the stone floor. After respectfully contemplating its massive presence for a moment, he wrestled the sack out of its belly, and, having hoisted it as high as he could muster, he turned around—only to bump smack into Jo, who had somehow magically appeared behind him. "Oh!" she cried, clapping a hand over her mouth—but it was too late; in one agonizing moment, he teetered under the weight of the sack, but the crucial balance had been upset, and, alas! Down tumbled the oats, scattering in a wave all over the pantry floor. A fine cloud of oat-flour mushroomed upward and hung about the knees of the stricken pair.

"Where did you come from?" Laurie exclaimed at exactly the same moment that Jo demanded, "What were you doing?!"

"_I_ was getting the oats, of course—what the Dickens made you bounce in here like a firecracker without a word of warning?"

"I was bringing you these!" Jo cried indignantly, holding aloft a tin scoop and measuring cup. "Why on _earth_ were you carrying the entire bag?"

"Well, I didn't know you had _that_," Laurie shot back, pointing at the scoop, "and anyway, we were going to need more than that—we've far too much dough, in case you hadn't noticed."

Jo, stung by the mention of her failure, drew herself up, eyes flashing. "Oh, _thank_-you, Mr. Laurence," she said acidly, "I did _so_ need someone to point that out to me. I thought you were going to be a help, not a smart-aleck!"

"I am helping! Look, I'm positively covered in flour—"

"Yes, and the floor's covered with oats—" Jo began hotly, hands on her hips, but she stopped suddenly upon hearing the kitchen door open.

"What's going on?" came a worried voice, and Meg, dressed neatly and making for a harsh contrast with the scene around her, came into view, standing behind Jo in the pantry doorway. Laurie immediately looked rather ashamed of himself, as he always did when Meg, or especially Marmee, caught them bickering.

Meg took in the scene with raised eyebrows--Laurie's guilty expression and oat-covered apron, her sister's red face and air of general chaos. She sighed, then, "Jo," she began in an admonitory tone, "have you been quarreling again?"

Jo opened her mouth with an angry look, but was brought up short by Laurie's interjection—

"It's my fault, Meg, I—well, I poked fun at her earlier and made her mad, and now I've gone and made a horrid mess. I'm truly sorry," he said earnestly, looking at Jo, "really." Then he added in a slightly lower tone, "So let's not keep on and get into a proper fight—I'll sweep up, don't worry."

Jo's eyes widened, and her look turned to confusion, then suddenly to guilt, as she deflated somewhat from her huffed state. She swallowed, then twisted her mouth and said, "Oh, stop it, Teddy, don't be ridiculous. It's—it's my fault, I ran in here and I've been irritable all day, and all you did was try to make me laugh."

"Well yes, but I still should have been more careful with the bag..."

"It's all right—and I'm sorry for being such a fright. Call it Pax?"

Laurie solemnly stuck out his hand, and Jo shook it.

Meg witnessed the proceedings with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, shaking her head at the pair. "_Really,_" she said loftily, turning round to appraise the damage behind her.

"Well," she continued brightly after a moment's contemplation, "now you two children have quit squabbling, do you need some help with—" she glanced around, "ah, with whatever you've been doing to make the kitchen look as if it's exploded?"

"Yes, please!" replied Laurie and Jo in relief—Meg smiled, reaching for an apron.

…

"All right then, that should do it!" Jo pronounced with a satisfied nod as she shut the oven door with a _clunk_. Meg had just finished the dishes, while Laurie's head was visible in the pantry as he sought out every last oat that lay hidden in its corners.

"Jo dear, do you think you can manage now? I've got to pay a call to the Kings', I'm afraid," Meg said, drying her hands with a sigh.

Jo laughed. "Yes, Meg, we'll be fine, I promise not to burn the house down or anything of the sort, if that's what worries you. And thank you," she said seriously, "you've no idea how much those cookies were vexing me," she threw the oven a wry glance.

Meg departed and went on her way to the Kings' house, and Jo proceeded to scrub the counters vigorously. They were quite clean, but she needed to think, and wished to keep her hands busy.

She rubbed the washcloth back and forth methodically, while silently scolding herself. She hadn't really meant to get angry at Laurie, but she hadn't known what else to do, for all afternoon she'd been terribly distracted by him. She'd found herself watching him out of the corner of her eye, smiling to herself as he furrowed his brow over her botched recipe; inhaling slowly as he creased his lips, sticking his tongue out just a little bit in concentration; mesmerized by his hands as they flew about according to his will. Though she gave him a stern look and a raised eyebrow when he caught her looking, inside she glowed every time he smiled at her, eyes laughing—until she suddenly turned back to her baking, mentally slapping herself for being "swoony." It was true, these feelings weren't exactly new, but she could almost always control them—it was _Laurie_, for goodness' sake, she saw him every _day_—she should be able to look at him without feeling wobbly. Yes, she should!

"Hmph," she muttered to herself, scrubbing away, "swoony, indeed!"

"What was that?"

Jo jumped as a voice sounded from behind her—she turned and saw Laurie wiping oat-dust from his hands as he set the scoop on the table.

"Nothing," she said brusquely, setting down her rag and seizing a stack of dishes, immediately heading for the pantry. Unfortunately Laurie followed her, leaning against the bare wood wall behind her as he contemplated the oat-jar which had given him so much trouble.

"It's really rather intimidating, you know, that jar." He turned to Jo, who had her back to him as she settled the newly washed and dried bowls on the pantry shelves. Her hair was damp in tendrils round her face from the heat of the oven, and coming loose. Laurie grinned as he spotted several remaining oats caught in it—he leaned over to brush them out as she said,

"Scared of pottery, Laurie, whatever—" then stopped, and he knew she felt his hands run softly through her hair, down her shoulders and her arms as he stepped closer.

"Your hair's getting long again…" he murmured as he tilted his face down to her neck, the heat of his words sweeping her skin. She stood very still, and for a moment he wasn't sure, he was never sure what she wanted—but then in one swift movement she turned to face him, and after staring into his eyes for a split second, breathing quickly, she pulled him flush against her and sought his mouth hungrily. His eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly closed them and let himself sink into the feel of her lips, heated and urgent—his hands moved feverishly from her waist to her hair to her face, unable to get enough of her. He loved her so much, and she had finally kissed him first—did she feel what he felt? Were her veins full of the same fire? He could feel her heart throbbing wildly, pushed burning against his chest—she had to feel it—and he pressed her back against the shelves, kissing her fervently, tasting her sweet mouth with a longing he had never realized. She moaned slightly and pulled his hips closer, gripping him firmly as her body surged against his, and he knew she was letting go, she had been wanting this the whole time and now she was letting go.

Jo couldn't feel the shelves pressing into her back, her awareness was lost as Laurie dipped his head and teased his lips under the angle of her jaw, his hot breath brushing against her skin and making her blood rush and the heat build in her ears. She was a vortex, and scared as she was of her own impatience, she was powerless to stop it, and she twisted her head and caught his mouth again with her own. She could feel herself shaking, and she held on tighter with one hand and let the other slip between the buttons of Laurie's shirt to press just above his restless heartbeat—somewhere far away there was a sound that couldn't be important—she felt a power coursing through her that came from somewhere else, and as it built and her fingers curled into a fist and Laurie moaned deeply into her mouth she heard a footstep that was too nearby, oh no it—

_Clang!_

Jo wrenched herself away from Laurie, dizzy and breathing hard as they both turned; and there—oh, Gods—standing in the door of the pantry, was none other than Hannah, with the oats scoop fallen at her feet, staring at them with eyes wide and mouth in a perfect _o_.


	6. Chapter 6: Sympathy

A/N: So don't worry, I am a devoted Jo/Laurie shipper and will not torture them too much, but we do need something to draw it out, now don't we? otherwise it would really be too easy...

Disclaimer: If I had invented these characters I would have books out right now instead of fanfiction--needless to say, I have fanfiction.

Chapter 6: Sympathy

…

Jo stood rooted to the spot, staring in horror at Hannah. She was rendered temporarily speechless, and several beats passed during which the scene remained frozen—then Laurie suddenly moved to stand protectively in front of Jo. This somehow irked her immensely, her annoyance breaking through her paralyzed state.

"Hannah," she began, not quite knowing what she intended to say, "We're not…oh, blast, this must look—well—but we haven't been…I mean…" she trailed off, wishing she didn't sound quite so breathless and foolish, and glared up at Laurie's back. "Teddy, would you move, please?"

He ignored her. "Please don't tell anyone, Hannah—it was me, Jo isn't to blame, and I won't let it happen again—so Mrs. March doesn't have to know—"

Jo, safely out of view behind her partner in crime, rolled her eyes. "That's the second time you've taken all the credit today—I'm not a victim, Teddy, I'm as much at fault as you."

"I should say ye are, Mis' Jo," she heard Hannah interject. Jo colored as she remembered where her hands had been just a minute ago, feeling suddenly thankful that Laurie was so tall—then she frowned. "This won't do at all," she thought, and giving herself a brisk shake, she pushed Laurie out of the way, speaking with more bravery than she felt.

"It's my fault as much as his, if not more, and I'm very sorry, Hannah. We didn't mean…" she shot Laurie a glance, and waved her arm vaguely, "well…we didn't mean anything by it. Just, please, please don't tell the others—Marmee won't be pleased, I know, and Meg will scold, and Amy! Oh dear, we shall never hear the end of it…" she said, looking alarmed at the very prospect.

Hannah said nothing for a moment, and Jo thought she was looking at them rather queerly. She seemed to be struggling with herself, for her mouth opened and closed several times, and though she was frowning, she looked a little uncertain. "I jes' come to check—Miss Margaret sed ye might not be too good at handlin' things alone, an' I giss she wuz right," she gave Jo a severe look, "An' by rights I should tell Missus March, I should, for I know ye won't be tellin' her by your own selves, but…" and here she looked doubtful of something. Jo had often read the phrase "one could see the cogs turning in her head," but had not until now understood just how that looked. She didn't know what was the cause of Hannah's indecision, but she watched with bated breath until suddenly—

"Never ye' mind," Hannah mumbled, shaking her head forcefully and turning out of the pantry, her black skirts and apron disappearing from sight.

Jo's mouth opened in surprise, and her eyes found Laurie's—neither said a word as they listened to Hannah peeking into the stove and examining the cookies before walking back out of the kitchen—humming quietly to herself.

"Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end!" Jo exclaimed, raising her arms in imitation of Meg as they heard Hannah make her way up the stairs. "What on earth was that for?"

"I was expecting a little more of a fuss," Laurie said, running his fingers through his hair in bewilderment.

"So was I!" Jo had also expected to be feeling much more uncomfortable once alone again with Laurie, but she said nothing about that. "And I expected to lose the fight, what's more—I was certain she'd tell Marmee and we'd be done for!"

"I wonder why she didn't? Does she owe you a secret or something?" Laurie waited until Jo had passed him, then followed her out of the pantry.

"Don't be silly, Teddy—what secret could I possibly be keeping for Hannah?"

"Well _I_ wouldn't know, perhaps she's living under a false name—she could be on the run from the law, Hannah could, lo these many years. Say, one day when you were very young, you were told to give her a letter from a mysterious stranger in the street calling himself—er," he paused. "What should he call himself?"

Jo gave him a look. "Sir Hugo—what does it matter? it's all speculation anyway, no such thing ever happened, I am not keeping a secret for Hannah."

"Calling himself Sir Hugo, right," Laurie went on regardless, "and told not to open it under any circumstances, but deliver it _straight _to one Hannah Mullet, currently residing at the Marches'. Well, of course, being Jo, you opened it anyway, and inside, what should you discover but—"

"Teddy," Jo suddenly interrupted his imaginings, "what's that?" she pointed at a white piece of paper fallen face-down on the floor. "I'm sure that wasn't there before."

He bent over, picked up the little rectangle, and flipped it over curiously. Jo, seeing the look on his face, immediately jumped up from the chair she'd collapsed in and peered over his shoulder, then put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Well I never!" he whispered. "A love-letter!"

Jo snatched it out of his hand. "Now don't go reading it, Theodore Laurence, it's Hannah's, and no business of ours."

"Jo! Don't you want to know what's in it? It's from our gardener—I _knew_ he was acting strange lately, and now it all makes sense—the poor fellow's lovesick!"

"Good heavens, Laurie, have you no conscience? We don't read other people's _mail_."

"Ah, but we should know why we've been let off, in preparation—and this is obviously the reason; she sympathizes. Now, don't tell me you aren't curious, I know you too well for that, Jo March."

"Of course I am, but I sha'n't be coaxed into spying by a rogue such as yourself. Besides, we don't need to read it, we should be grateful that she _did _let us off, and leave it at that." Jo was starting to regret her impulsive actions earlier, and was determined to get Laurie off the subject of lovers and the like as quickly as possible.

"Oh, come now, Jo, I've already read the first bit, and anyway, she did just see us—" Jo's face turned a little pink—"_kissing_," Laurie drew the word out, enjoying her expression. It was the first time either of them had made mention of their relations aloud, as Jo especially had fiercely avoided the matter, and never acted as if anything out of the ordinary had occurred after, indeed, it had. Laurie had caught her smiling to herself or looking his way when she thought he couldn't tell, but on all other occasions she permitted no reference to anything other than their friendship—except, of course, when kissing him.

"You wicked boy—you said that on purpose, didn't you?" she accused, holding the letter out of reach.

"Indeed—most things I say are on purpose."

"That isn't what I meant, and well you know it."

"Jo, for a girl who writes heaps of romance for the paper you're quite touchy about it when it actually happens to you, you know that?"

She crossed her arms. "You know I don't like to talk about…when things happen."

"And why not?" he placed his arm against the wall between Jo and the door, leaning his weight on it as he stared relentlessly into her eyes. "You love to write of all your dukes and knights and princes and the lot—they all proclaim their ardor for their lady-loves in poetic verse and beat their brows, and then the girls do the same before they go off and finish the adventure. Is it because I don't wear armor and carry a sword that you won't stand for me to do it? By Jupiter, Jo, I thought you didn't care for a lordly sort of man anyway. So what is it, then? Don't I measure up to your Sir Roderigo after all?"

"Teddy, don't talk like that," she said defensively. "It's not the same at all, I write those stories for the money they fetch, and people like to read romance. But I don't need—I don't want to have to think about it every day." She bit her lip and looked down at her shoes, hating herself for not being able to just tell the truth.

Laurie reached out his other arm and caught her chin between his finger and thumb, gently tilting her face up so he could see her eyes again. "What are you so frightened of?"

She looked away, out the window. "I don't want to talk about this, Teddy."

He dropped her chin. "You can lock your characters in the garret when they tire you, Jo, but I'm not going anywhere, and it's useless to push me away." He put his hands in his pockets, and when he spoke again his voice sounded hoarse—

"You didn't even say anything after Christmas Eve when we made Beth's snow-girl. Don't try to fool me, Jo. I know you heard what I said."

Jo took a sharp breath and looked back at him involuntarily. "Oh, don't, I—"

"Jo," he interrupted, "I love you."

She looked up at his face, full of determination, his eyes dark and never leaving her own, and she felt her heart throb painfully. A very large part of her wanted to say the words back to him, like the most natural thing in the world, and she was afraid of how compelling that wish was. She fought it, without fully knowing why, and swallowed the words even as they rose to her lips, stammering as she stared back at him, "I—I—Teddy, please, I—oh, Hannah!"

And for the second time that day, Laurie turned around to see Hannah standing behind him, having entered the kitchen without the knowledge of its two rather distracted occupants. However, she did not seem to have noticed what she had interrupted, and was wringing her hands agitatedly, asking, "Have either of ye seen—oh dear!" she caught sight of the letter still in Jo's hand, and covered her mouth in alarm. "Is that my letter?"

"Oh, yes, here," Jo said, handing it over, glad of her rescue from Laurie. "Don't worry, we haven't read it—only it was on the floor, and we didn't know what it was."

"Yes…well…thank-ye…" Hannah said a little breathlessly, as she slipped the letter into her pocket and patted it carefully. She fiddled uncomfortably with her apron strings for a moment, while Laurie looked at Jo, and Jo in turn avoided his gaze—until suddenly, with unlikely relief, Hannah interrupted the silence, crying—"Oh, Miss Jo! Ye've forgotten the cookies!"

The next few minutes were busy as the three tried to find room for the hot trays holding the only-slightly-burnt fruits of Jo's unfortunate recipe, and once they had cooled down, Hannah sent Laurie home with a heaping plateful, insisting that they had made enough to feed an army so he may as well have plenty. He hadn't said anything to Jo since Hannah came in, but as he left he glanced back through the window, knowing she was looking—and Jo knew that she wasn't going to be allowed to forget this time.

Watching him trudge along the path to his house, Jo had to feel that Hannah had been right to sympathize with them—it was indeed difficult when romance was no longer confined to the page.

…

A/N: So I will love you forever if you review, (especially this one, because it's late and i really have no idea about it anymore) and I'll go read and review one of your stories, I promise. Also, reviews make me work faster, so that means more chapters for you...


	7. Chapter 7: A Perilous Play

A/N: This is about a play, and it is the follow-up to chapter 4 ( i think that's the one) where Laurie joins the Pickwick Club--but, well, the play's not perilous. No, that was a rather lame and transparent pun on my part, because Louisa May Alcott wrote a short story about hashish called Perilous Play. So technically I don't own that title, but I couldn't resist.

And guys, THANK YOU for all your wonderful reviews, I'm doing my best to review your stories as well, so keep writing, reading, and reviewing! yay fanfiction! also, don't hesitate to suggest things to me if you think there's something i could be doing better.

Disclaimer: I admit it, I stole the title. But as I'm already stealing Louisa May Alcott's characters, it's okay--I make no profit, it's all in good clean fun.

Chapter 7: A "Perilous" Play

…

"Amy! We've been over this before—you're stiff as a poker when you faint, try to make it a little more fluid, like so—" and a be-mustached and top-hat-sporting Jo tumbled to the floor in a heap, mouth open and eyes rolling wildly into the back of her head.

"I won't do _that_, you look a perfect terror. I refuse to be made a fool of, and you weren't fluid anyway—you've absolutely no idea how to be graceful."

Jo stood and dusted herself off, glaring at her sister though a pair of spectacle frames bereft of their lenses. "People _aren't_ graceful when they faint. Grace is all very well for swooning, but you aren't—you're fainting."

"It's all the same."

"No, it isn't—swooning is for rich ladies who've just discovered their inheritance has been lost to their evil uncle-in-law Count such-and-such. You, my dear, have been rotting in a dungeon for a year, and just got clubbed smartly—you're fainting. You've got to do it as if you've really lived on bread and water for months, and haven't the strength to hold your weakened bones up any longer. Now then!" she flipped her hand at Amy, who twisted her mouth, then grudgingly collapsed.

Jo raised an eyebrow, then sighed as she appraised her younger sister. "It'll have to do." She swiveled around to face the tall boy behind her who wore an odd mixture of gravity and suppressed laughter on his face. "Laurie!" she said with a commanding air.

"Sir!" He stood at attention.

"Run through the scene where you rescue Lady Cordelia, if you please—Amy, come be rescued with Meg; don't fret about the fainting anymore, you've time to practice. Cordelia!"

Meg presented herself, dressed in an old coat and a motley assortment of scraps from the rag bag, her face accordingly ashen and drawn. All worries of propriety forgotten, she huddled against the old chest of drawers (which doubled as the wall of a prison cell) in perfect imitation of misery. Amy sat beside her in similar attire, looking, if not miserable, at least dramatically annoyed.

"Ahem! All right—sleep has evaded the sisters, and they are awake as Ivan enters, stage right, with the key."

Ivan, producing a heavy iron key from his pocket, stole along the corridor to the cell in which the prisoners languished. Looking about furtively for the guard—Beth was silently patrolling around the other end of the garret—he turned the key in the lock and slipped in through the door, pulling it to behind him. At his entrance the cell's occupants at first shrank fearfully into the corner, but he then stepped forward, and Meg, appearing to suddenly recognize him, stood and seemed about to throw herself at him—but suddenly stopped, her hand to her heart, saying,

"Ivan! Is it truly you? Long months have I spent dreaming of your face in this cell—tell me, do I not dream again?"

"You do not dream, Lady, I assure you—I am no vision, but true flesh here before your eyes. But hush! The guard approaches—when he has passed this cell once more, we shall flee this place together, for I have been sent by your betrothed, Lord Barclay, to spring you and your sister from this fiendish place."

"But shall we not be pursued by Count Desmond? Surely we shall be murdered if he captures us, and if we return unscathed to Lord Barclay's manor, Desmond will send a company of his knights to kill us all!"

"If all goes well tonight, you need not fear such reprisal—none shall know of your flight till morning, and by then the army my Lord has amassed shall be here to take back Desmond's usurped land once and for all."

"Lord Barclay has gathered an army?"

"You have been locked away for a long time, my Lady—much can be accomplished in ten months. Now, pray, be silent—I hear the guard approaching."

All held their breath as the little guard, solemn and rosy-cheeked, marched past the cell in boots rather too large for him, clunking heavily with each step. While they waited, Amy, who had risen when Meg did but remained in the corner, finally crept forward and put her ear to the door, listening. She nodded eventually, observing in a solemn whisper, "He's past." She was about to push the door open when Jo, who had been studying them from the corner, suddenly gave a shout, running into the scene. "You there! Guard!" she called. "Halt! Have you my key-ring? Last I saw it, it hung here at my belt. Do you know its whereabouts?"

"Nay, sir, I know not where your keys may be."

Jo suddenly drew a sword from her belt, leaping towards the door of the cell, to which Amy's ear was still pressed. She flung it open with a fierce cry, and Amy, upon encountering the steel sword-tip wavering in her face, crumpled to the ground, heedless of grace, dust, bruises, or other consequences. A look of satisfaction crossed Jo's face briefly, then she swept past the fallen prisoner, advancing upon the key-bearing Ivan, mustache quivering with impressive rage. "Thief!" hissed the man-at-arms, now waving the sword triumphantly at the boy, who, under cover of a large, strangely wooly black cloak, put a hand surreptitiously to his belt.

"Stay your hand, I do not wish to quarrel with you," he replied.

"Ha! He who attempts to steal away my Lord's prisoners has already sought a quarrel, my boy, and a quarrel he shall get!"

As Jo swung the sword up in a dramatic sweep (knocking off her hat as she did so), Laurie shouted, "Flee, my Lady Cordelia!"

"Nay--I cannot leave Isabelle!"

"I shall bring your sister! Go!"

He drew a blade of his own, which, though rather floppy, was nevertheless wielded with skill, and a riveting duel ensued as Meg ran offstage. The fight ended with the gurgling death of Lord Desmond's hired man, who fell to the ground beside Cordelia's unconscious sister, choking and clawing at the air. However, as the two fought it out, the guard had been off to fetch a sword of his own, and was now on his way back, his clunking preceding him and serving as an alarm. Ivan seized Isabelle and went the way Cordelia had with speed, pulling her offstage just as the guard arrived on the scene, puffing, sword in hand.

All paused.

"Excellent!" Jo suddenly cried, popping up from her stricken state with all too much enthusiasm for one so freshly dead. "Amy, the faint was perfectly graceless; Laurie, your fencing entirely eclipses my own; Meg, you're our best actress as always; Beth, you managed all the timing exactly as I wished. Now, don't waste a moment, it's on to the next scene while we're still in character—here, set up, set up!"

There was a flurry as the prison cell was dismantled and rearranged, and costumes were repositioned; then all but Amy and Laurie drew back. At a nod from Jo, Isabelle resumed her slump, eyes closed, and Ivan adopted a look of concern. "Isabelle!" he said in a loud whisper, shaking her. "Wake, Isabelle, I beg you, we have no time!"

Isabelle's eyelids fluttered and she sat up slowly, yawning as she did so. Jo's mustache twisted at this, but with difficulty she restrained herself from interruption.

"Ivan?" Isabelle said fuzzily, blinking. "What has happened? Where are we?"

"Hush. We're behind the stables, and if Cordelia has done as I think, then she is here somewhere close—perhaps in the woods, or even already among the horses." He began to rise, but Isabelle put a hand on his arm, staying him.

"Wait, Ivan, there is something I must tell you."

"Tell, then, but with haste."

"I shall, but listen well. It is but this: lo these many years that you have watched over my sister, I myself have watched you—"

"No, no, no!" Jo burst out suddenly, unable to contain herself. "Amy, you did the fainting wonderfully, but you've got to sound as if you're in _love_ now—you're somehow managing to sound like a schoolteacher, lecturing."

Amy abandoned what she had considered and earnest, devoted look, and crossed her arms. "Well, how should I know how to sound in love? I'm only twelve. I've never _been_ in love."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Use your imagination—haven't you read enough romance novels?"

"_You're_ the one who's always holed up with a book, Jo—I expect you'd know more about it."

Jo sighed, exasperated. "All right, get up—I'll show you."

Amy, looking disgruntled and haughty all at once, stood, and Jo took her place on the floor. "Like this," she said, clearing her throat and turning to Laurie.

"I shall, but listen well," she spoke in a low voice, staring into his eyes and looking suddenly serious despite the hat and facial hair. "It is but this: lo these many years that you have watched over my sister, I myself have watched you. You did not know it, but I dreamed of you many a night before we were taken away—and in my time of despair in that cell, it was your face" she raised her hand to Laurie's and stroked it—his eyes widened—"that I saw before me. I love you—I always have, and I shall take it with me to the grave. I know of Cordelia's feelings for you," she looked down as if in shame, "but she is betrothed… perhaps…could you not love me as I love you?" her eyes found his again as she turned her face back up, and suddenly Jo felt herself slip entirely out of character at the look on Laurie's face, so close to her own that she could feel his breath. He stared at her for an eternity of a moment, his mouth slightly open as if about to say something; then he suddenly blinked. "Oh…" he said confusedly. "I…I've forgotten my line."

Jo felt a little dazed, though she wasn't sure why. She shook herself. "Beth?"

Beth, who was holding Jo's handwritten copy of the script, obligingly provided, "It's, 'Isabelle, I do not wish to hurt you, but I love your sister, and I can love no other.'"

"Right," Jo said, hurriedly getting to her feet and nearly tripping in the process. "Amy, you try this time, we'll start at the beginning of the scene."

Amy took her place once more, and the scene began again—Jo, however, was quite oblivious to the performance, and had to take Meg's word when told that both played it exceptionally well, as she herself had been strangely unable to concentrate.

…

The following evening, the girls and Laurie were caught in a whirlwind of preparation for the debut of their performance, all overseen and generally exacerbated by a particularly animated Jo, who was reveling in the excited atmosphere. There was a great air of anticipation all round the house—Hannah remarked that she couldn't go into the same room as the girls the entire day, for fear of catching the fever that seemed to have seized them. Beth fixed props and costumes all day industriously; Meg practiced and coached Amy, who in turn became quite apt at collapsing into a boneless heap, and much improved her "lovering" speech, inspired by Jo's example the day before. Jo was particularly anxious that all should go well, for it was Laurie's first performance as a member of the Pickwick Club and thus the girl's theatrical society. She did begin to fret now and then, but when a fit seized her she went off on an energetic rummage from cellar to garret that calmed her nerves and yielded extra materials to be used for props or other play-related purposes. Laurie, unfortunately, was captured by Mr. Brooke early in the day and forced to study until mid-afternoon, at which point, much to the relief of all, he begged his way free and came for one last dress rehearsal before the proper event.

…

"Bless them, they've gone and turned all the furniture over!"

"Oh, they always do—it's part of the scenery. Look, that's a forest, over there, you can tell from the potted plants—"

"Which of the girls wrote the play again?"

"Josephine, of course, she's the second eldest, likes scribbling, they say—"

"Is there a fire in there?"

"Have you seen any of the Marches' Christmas plays?"

"When does it start?"

Jo listened to the chatter of the family and friends who had come to see her production with pride and no small amount of nerves. "Never mind," she told herself firmly. "If they approve, they approve; if not, you've enjoyed it anyway, so stop fretting."

She was interrupted by the appearance of Laurie seemingly from nowhere. "Gathering your courage, Jo?" he inquired innocently.

The enthusiastic and well-costumed lad, it had been decided, was to recite the prologue to the play, as he was the newest member of the dramatis personae, and needed introduction. Jo, refusing to acknowledge his uncanny perception, studied him instead, taking in cape, boots, hat, beard, gloves, and smiling face. "Are you quite sure you're ready?"

"I don't suppose I'll ever be more so—why, Jo, aren't you?"

She lifted her chin in defiance. "Of course I am."

"Wish me luck, then," he said, grinning mischievously.

"You don't need my luck, you're brimming over with confidence as it is—but, oh! good luck, all the same," she said, suddenly earnest despite herself. He gave her a smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder before stepping out in front of the audience—a hush fell over the small crowd, and many approving faces beamed upon him. He spread his arms wide—and the show began.

…

"…perhaps…could you not love me as I love you?"

Jo snapped to attention behind the curtain, hearing Amy speak the line that had come from her own mouth with unbidden life just yesterday. She had a nagging desire to think—properly think—about the look in Laurie's eyes when she had said the words, but she pushed it to the back of her mind again and watched the stage.

There was a pause where Amy looked at Laurie with rather commendable longing, she thought, considering Jo's own performance was all the girl had to go on. Then,

"Isabelle," Laurie said with feeling, "I do not wish to hurt you, but I love your sister," he paused and looked up, right at the unsuspecting Jo, who, standing safely out of view, felt an electric shock pass through her--"and I can love no other."

Jo didn't turn away as they finished the scene, and she didn't address the nagging desire to think about the rehearsal. She didn't let herself wonder, refusing to give in to the temptation.

But, as they were preparing for bed that night, after they had cleaned up the mess and sent everyone home in high spirits, Meg said to her, "Jo, dear, you're quite the mystery--what on earth was making you grin like the Cheshire cat behind that stage?"

And Jo, shaking her head and saying nothing, felt a little warm glow somewhere in her chest as she lay down and closed her eyes, a smile still tugging at her lips.

…


	8. Chapter 8: Roses in December

A/N: I love J. M. Barrie, and the title of this chapter is from a quote of his--"God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December."

This chapter is, I know, VERY short. But I wasn't actually going to write it at all—it came to me today during math class :D. This means that I will have another, real chapter up hopefully very soon—I wasn't going to upload this until I'd written that one, but you tell me—would you rather not be teased by the short one, or just take whatever's written whenever it's written?

Disclaimer: we of this website write FANfiction—this seems like a self-explanatory sort of disclaimer to me.

Chapter 8: Roses in December

…

"Oh!" Jo said softly, clasping her hands together and looking around in delight. Laurie couldn't keep the smile off his face at the sight of her obvious pleasure, and felt quite pleased himself at being able to make her beam so. He watched her as she wandered through the rows of hothouse flowers, inhaling with a rapt expression; those blossoms she lingered by he cut the best of, intending to make her a present of them. He wished he could offer her something that would cheer her as she had him, but the flowers would do in the meantime, as it was winter and the Marches' garden was naught but a series of odd lumps beneath the New England snow.

He was struggling with the particularly stubborn, fibrous stem of a vivid orange one when he looked up at Jo, at firstly simply glancing at her—then he did a double take.

She was bent over a white lily, her nose dusted comically with its pollen—but it was the flower beside her that drew his eyes. A brilliant, deep red burst of a rose, it hung low, apart from the others of its mother plant, dipping down by Jo's waist. The simple little picture—Jo, with her harsh angles lending her a frank, honest air; the wild loneliness of the scarlet flower at her side—struck a chord in his heart, and he took a breath. Laurie had been surrounded by things of beauty all his life, and, being the gentleman that Marmee saw in him, he knew to appreciate them; but at that moment he felt he had never seen anything truly beautiful until now.

For a moment Jo remained still beside the rose, her face calm and eyes closed, as she breathed in the heady scent of the lily. When she turned the vision was broken; but something of its raw beauty followed her as she made her way through the conservatory, and Laurie, though he wouldn't have been able to tell anyone how, thought he could see the rose echoing somewhere in her hands. Jo did not have graceful hands—an artist would not have painted them draped over a fan—and neither was the rose graceful; but, Oh! Laurie thought, almost painfully, they were beautiful.

He was shaken from his reverie by the sudden realization that she was staring at him. "What is it?" she asked curiously.

He shook himself. "Er—nothing, it's just, you've pollen on your nose," he said, pointing.

She rubbed vigorously at the yellow-coated feature, then asked in all seriousness, "Have I got it all?"

He laughed, making her grin in return. "All clear, Miss March."

…

Once Jo had gone back across the way, laden with the flowers Laurie had gathered for her, he returned alone to the conservatory and stood before the rose. He reached for the garden shears, intending to cut it and bring it to his room, to remember—but something stayed his hand, and instead he bent to smell it. Without quite telling himself why, eyes closed as the surprisingly sharp scent filled his head, he let his lips brush lightly against the petals; then he stood briskly, put his hands in his pockets, and walked back out whistling.

…


	9. Chapter 9: Doctored in the China Closet

A/N: this chapter was inspired by a line in the scene where Mr. March comes home—"Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet." Now, if that isn't fic temptation, I don't know WHAT is. The only thing is, I don't know whether a china closet is the same thing as a pantry, so I used both words in this chapter—but if you know, please tell.

P.S.—literaryfreak, I wrote a kiss chapter for you, since they couldn't in the play. :D

Disclaimer: Louisa May Alcott is the one who tortured us all with the real ending of this book—I am merely a devoted fanfic writer who attempts to make us readers feel better about it.

Chapter 9: Doctored in the China Closet

…

Laurie stood beaming benevolently by the door, letting the March family have its joyous reunion without interruption, but all the same feeling his heart warmed by the spectacle of Mr. March disappearing under four pairs of loving arms which threatened to suffocate him, so eager were they to make sure that he was really truly home. Muffled as the traveler was so as to be hardly recognizable, the good father's eyes were so bright and filled with happy tears that, though they were the only visible aspect of the man, they conveyed more emotion than many faces bear in a lifetime.

Laurie was suppressing his laughter at Amy's thoroughly and wonderfully undignified form, tumbled at her father's feet, when he saw Jo, who had stepped back to allow Mrs. March a look at her husband. The tall girl was swaying, her face was quite pale; Laurie would have thought she was sick, but for her beatified look and uncontrollable smile. All the same, she looked as if she were about to fall off her feet—Laurie ducked forward quickly, careful to avoid the mess of people nearby, and arrived at her side not a moment too soon—for she quietly and without complaint slipped sideways, her eyes beginning to slide shut, the smile gracing her face all the while. Laurie caught her gently and half dragged her out into the hall, passing John Brooke and Meg along the way, the pair of whom seemed to be kissing.

In the hall they found Hannah, sobbing over her turkey, and his grandfather, smiling as he watched through the doorway tears in his own eyes. Laurie, looking around for somewhere quiet to take the fainting Jo, espied the china closet. He darted in and pulled her after him, closing the door almost to against the hubbub outside.

"Jo," he said quietly, trying not to laugh. "Jo, my good fellow, are you all right?"

She didn't respond, merely blinked eyes that she seemed to have trouble holding open at him, smiling. "Laurie," she breathed happily, but said nothing else.

He sighed, shaking his head at the unpredictable girl before him. "By Jupiter, Jo, you'll never cease to amaze the likes of me. Wait here a moment while I get some water—I sha'n't be long, so be a good girl and don't move, or you'll fall over again."

He left her in the quiet dark of the closet, hurrying to the kitchen. Returning shortly with a wet rag and a cup of cold water, he administered the cure to his peacefully compliant patient with care, dabbing it on her forehead and the insides of her wrists. When she could hold her eyes open and no longer appeared quite so like a top-heavy sunflower, he said again, gently, "Jo. Truly, are you well?"

His damsel in distress seemed to be awake, but unable to speak. She simply leaned against him, arms grasping his own, her eyes open now but gazing at him in such a state of bliss that she seemed almost not to be seeing him—and at the same time, Laurie thought no one had ever looked at him more sincerely. He rather liked the uncharacteristic arrangement, especially as Jo's continued lack of balance kept her from letting go of him. She sighed happily, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. "He's home, Laurie," she said at last. "Everything's going to be all right."

He looked at her face for a moment, thinking he had seldom seen anything more beautiful. She had leaned back against the wood of the closet, but hadn't let go of his arms, so that he had been pulled back as well and was now but a few inches from her. He stroked the side of her arm gently, his hand running up and down the fabric of her red Christmas dress. How he would like to kiss her!

"Well," he reasoned to himself, "she didn't seem to mind all that much last night, did she? And if Meg and Brooke were kissing, why shouldn't I kiss Jo? I'm not likely to see her in such a mood again."

Shuffling a little closer, he wondered for a moment—recalling her response to his kiss by the Alpine Maid, he tilted his head and smiled. He considered Jo's expression, her eyes still closed; then leaned forward, and, after hesitating just for a moment in the air above her, pressed his warm lips against hers.

To his surprise and pleasure, she didn't start away. She made no movement of protest, she didn't even open her eyes. She simply kissed him back.

…

Jo felt Laurie chuckle deep in his chest, and as his mouth smiled against her own she didn't need to wonder what made him laugh—there was so much joy in the air it was almost palpable. She felt dazed by it, as if she would truly burst with a single drop more.

She kissed his smile, glowing inside and out, and for the moment, all her doubts about love, about her feelings for Laurie—she forgot all of them. Taking her mouth from his, she put her hands on either side of his dear face, and, standing on tiptoes, pressed her lips to his forehead, lingering there, expressing a tenderness in a chaste kiss that no lovers' one could have done.

When she lowered her face once more, Laurie bent to meet her, this time leaning his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and simply breathing. She, too, let her eyes slide shut, and her breath rose and fell in time with his. They stood like that, alone in the china closet, for several minutes, both in simple contentment. Jo, if pressed, would not have called the experience lover-like at all—to her, it was all wrapped up in the incandescent happiness she was feeling, and the love, whatever kind it happened to be, she had always felt and always would feel for her Teddy. Laurie, in contrast, certainly _wanted_ the situation to be lover-like at first, but soon felt much the same as Jo. They had reached a communion, standing there holding each other, where they knew each other so intimately that later, with no words to describe the experience, they would not be able to fully comprehend it; but it didn't matter, because it transcended the moment, and in a way the connection would never leave them.

How long they would have stayed like that had they been undisturbed, I can't say, but presently they heard a step in the hall--Mr. Brooke's voice, fortunately passing the closet unsuspectingly, called, "Theodore Laurence! Laurie, for goodness' sake, come here!" he sighed, then tramped off, muttering, "where _has _that boy got to?"

His grumbling tone, clearly out of habit rather than any real annoyance on that night, was enough to set Jo and Laurie laughing quietly and returning nearly to normal, though still unusually joyful. Laurie, seeing that Jo's dazed state was being replaced by a slightly more reasonable one, quickly leaned forward and nudged his lips against hers one more time, caressing them briefly, and effectively rousing the Jo he was more familiar with.

"Laurie!" she whispered fiercely, a laugh in her voice despite the admonitory tone. "Enough, now."

He grinned at her. "How are you feeling, Jo dear?" he asked in mock concern. "You did almost _faint_, you know."

"I did not!"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Why exactly would you say we're in here, then?" he nodded at the surrounding darkened closet.

"I did _not_ faint, I was just a bit shaky, nothing more. And you sha'n't tell anyone, either, you rogue." She tried to shake her fist at him, but feared the emphasis was lost on her unquenchable companion. Instead, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode back through the closet door before she could capitulate to the look he had worn just a few minutes prior, which he was once more giving her. Laurie caught her hand and followed, and for a moment he thought she would let him keep hold of it; but just then Mr. Brooke rounded the corner at the far end of the hall—Jo quickly slipped her hand away, burying it close in the folds of her dress.

"Ah," Laurie's tutor said, coming up short and surveying his pupil and companion. "What exactly have—" but he stopped when Laurie held up his finger with a knowing look.

"Sir, I may be mistaken, but did I not see you and a certain Miss Margaret earlier…?" He feigned deference, but the older man was far too well acquainted with Laurie's habit of mischief to miss the twinkle in his eyes.

Mr. Brooke frowned. "An accident, I assure you."

Laurie fought to keep the smirk from his face, as he was trying to win his tutor's favor. "Well, I wouldn't have thought so, seeing it, but whatever it was, sir, I think it would be best forgotten, don't you?"

Mr. Brooke narrowed his eyes at his grinning student, but after a pause he nodded, and Laurie, well pleased, immediately wheeled Jo around and marched her in the opposite direction as his tutor went to collect his coat.

"_What_ exactly was that man doing with Meg?" Jo hissed as she was steered down the hall.

"Well, we're forgetting, aren't we?"

"Laurie!"

He smiled, then said with a shrug, "He kissed her."

Jo stopped in her tracks. "He what?"

"Kissed her. Actually, it was were I got the inspira—"

"Oh, Lord, he can't have done!" Jo couldn't quite manage to look as melancholy as the news called for, in light of recent events, but she certainly looked a little flustered.

"Now, Jo," Laurie said quietly, looking at her with sudden seriousness, "you're not to tell, and I won't have you moping about because Meg's in love—it's bound to happen to us all at some point, and you ought to be happy for her, not busy bemoaning her future."

Jo paled a little. "In love?" she whispered. "You really think she is?"

Laurie gave her an exasperated look. "You know she is, and don't you deny it." Softening as he looked down at her conflicted face, he said, "But you needn't fuss over it, really, Jo—let's just be happy to-night. "

Jo took a deep breath and set her jaw. "All right, then," and she put a smile back on her face, following Laurie back into the parlor to see Mr. March.

Laurie watched her before he departed with his grandfather and tutor, noting the gravity that news of Meg had touched her face with. He thought it softened her, but he knew that she was pained by thoughts of Meg growing up and leaving, and so he wished he hadn't told her. "But she did know," he told himself, "and she must come round to the idea eventually."

…

Later, as Jo scrubbed dishes beside Meg, she watched her face—her sister seemed to have an almost heavenly glow about her, and she hummed as she worked. Jo shelved plates grimly as she thought, "she's in love all right—soon enough that dreadful man will ask her to marry, and then what _shall_ I do?" Stealing another glance at Meg, she noted with a dark satisfaction the little smile she wore, as if at a secret. Jo paused, hidden in the pantry, and the thought of Laurie standing before her in the dark came unbidden to her mind. Before she could banish the thought, she wondered if she had worn just such a smile…

She frowned suddenly. "I shall have to put a stop to this," she muttered to herself, "we are all growing up far too quickly."

…


	10. Chapter 10: Beth's Prayer

A/N: (you are all amazing for reviews. really. thank you.) takes place shortly before Beth gets sick.

Disclaimer: Laurie, Jo, Beth, Amy, Meg, Marmee, Father, Hannah, Mr. Laurence...no, I did not invent any of them, and i don't pretend that i did.

Chapter 10: Beth's Prayer

…

"Beth, don't forget your hood!" Amy, shoes clattering on the wood, came racing up to where to where her sister stood at the door, holding out the little brown hood and asking breathlessly, "Do you think you could ask Laurie for a rose from the greenhouse? I'm desperate for one to sketch, and we haven't any left, they've all withered something terrible."

Beth smiled happily. "Of course—I'm sure he'll send you a whole bunch of flowers if I ask, he's always so thoughtful."

Amy glowed. "Oh, thank you!" she rushed back off to her sketchpad, curls bouncing. She had abandoned her mud pies for the time being, and was instead working industriously on a "picter" to send Father and Marmee down in Washington, but her rendition of their garden was rather hampered by winter's efforts upon it.

Beth closed the door quietly, lacing up her hood as she walked down the path to the Laurence's house, snow crunching underfoot. She hummed merrily in anticipation of the tunes she would play once inside, for she was determined to practice hard and show Father how his little girl had learned while he was away.

Laurie saw her through the window, coming up the path looking as sweet and rosy-cheeked as always, and he quickly shooed the servants away from the room where the grand piano was kept--poking his own head in briefly to be sure it was in order. There was some of his music still in the rack where he'd left it, but Beth wouldn't mind that, so he decided to leave it for her to try if she liked. He heard her knock then and hurried to the door, opening it and sweeping his arm gallantly as he waved her in.

"Why, hello there, Beth," he said with a smile as he closed the door again behind her. "And how are you this morning?"

"Nicely, thank you Laurie. How are you? And your grandfather?"

"He's doing splendidly—swears the basket you and Hannah sent over has cured his head cold quicker than Doctor Bangs could have, and I'm doing nicely myself. Say, is Jo in just now? I've discovered a book I rather think she'll enjoy."

"Yes, she is, and I'm sure she'd love to see you, she has a head cold as well and needs company—only," she turned her cold-reddened face up innocently as she took off the hood, "if it isn't too much trouble, before you go, Amy wanted to ask you for a rose—she needs one for drawing."

Laurie smiled again. Beth always made him feel like being a saint, in the most wonderful of ways—her gentle presence inspired goodness in the meanest of observers, and his own already expansive heart felt warmed by the kind glow that she gave off. "Certainly, no trouble at all," he said, happy to do her bidding. "I shall go cut her some now—can you show yourself in?" He gestured towards the room with the piano, knowing Beth liked to be alone when she went to play. Sure enough, she nodded and smiled her thanks, then softly went in to greet the old instrument she loved so.

Laurie watched her slip through the doorway, no longer timid in the great house, but quietly happy all the same. He knew it was hard on Beth to have their father sick and Marmee away, but the determined, domestic little girl worked away so hard at home, and spent so much time taking care of the Hummels and other friends she helped, that it made everyone happy when she came to play as she loved; she deserved it so. Laurie had an especial soft spot for the quiet March sister, not least because she was Jo's Bethy. He watched the way Beth looked up to her big harum-scarum sister, and the way Jo always had a tender word or help to spare in turn. Her mothering manner displayed the softer side of Jo, and the earnest goodness that arose in her when looking out for her sister touched Laurie, who soon found himself behaving in like kind. The thoughtful boy was more than willing to make a quiet fuss over Beth for her own sake, as well as gathering fulfillment from looking after what Jo loved.

She closed the door and he turned away, thinking good thoughts as he headed for the conservatory to provide Amy with her much-desired artist's bouquet.

…

Beth noticed some loose sheet music laid out on the piano's rack, and she picked it up eagerly, hoping to find a piece she'd been hearing Laurie play recently. She didn't know the name, but the opening measures were so distinct and beautiful she felt sure she'd recognize it in a heartbeat, if only it were there.

She was flipping through the thin pages delicately, pausing here and there as she studied unfamiliar titles or notes, when suddenly her eyes lit upon an entirely different sort of paper, stuck between the music like an afterthought. She pulled it out curiously, and realized it was a letter, written in Laurie's hand. She glanced at it, but despite natural interest, she was about to tuck it back in and continue her search, respecting her friend's privacy, when she noticed the words _Dearest Jo, _written neatly across the top of the page.

Now, Beth may have been the saint of the March family, but she was only human, after all. She knew she shouldn't be reading Laurie's letters, especially those addressed to her older sister—but it was that _dearest _that stayed her hand, keeping it from stowing the page out of sight. She had long been attentive to their neighbor's special affection for Jo, and had been watching it grow quietly in the past year. Of course, it had always seemed that the two had shared their own secret bond of friendship from the start, but Beth thought she could see something else in the way Laurie listened when Jo spoke, how happy he looked when making her laugh, and the sincere care in his voice when he spoke of her. However, she knew that even if Jo felt the same she certainly didn't know it yet, or at least wouldn't allow herself to think of it. Beth knew Jo better than anyone did, and though she wished for the sake of her neighbor and her sister that what she suspected would turn out well between them, she was well aware that it would take much time and patience. Thankfully, it seemed to her that Laurie, at least subconsciously, knew this as well. But _dearest…_

With the words dancing tantalizingly before her, Beth couldn't help herself. Her eyes followed the lines without orders, and she read:

_Dearest Jo,_

_I know you despise sentimentality and all that rubbish, but I have something that has been running round my head, and sentimental as it may be, I must have it out. _

_The first night we properly met, at the Gardiner's party—do you remember when you told me you'd burnt your dress, and couldn't dance? I don't know if you knew it, but something happened to me then. You were open and honest and altogether jollier than anyone I'd ever met, and that was my first real glimpse of Jo March. If someone had told me at the time what friends we'd be now, I shouldn't think I'd have been surprised in the slightest. _

_But now, looking back, Jo, I think I can see something else at that moment. Just then, when you told me I could laugh, because you had a bad trick of standing before the fire and burning all your frocks—just then, I think I started falling in love with you. _

_There. I've written it. _

_I love you, Jo March._

_It does look rather wonderful in print, doesn't it? Is this how your pen-and-ink characters tell each other such things? No, I should think they'd be far better at it than me, judging from your plays. Remember the one where Amy couldn't confess her love satisfactorily, and you had to show her how? What were you thinking of, Jo, when you proclaimed Isabelle's love for Ivan? What was running through your head? You paused, I remember. And I know you saw me look at you behind the curtain when we performed. I can't be sure, but I think I saw you smile._

_What were you thinking?_

The letter stopped abruptly, and there was no closure or signature. It was creased deeply where Beth could tell it had been folded and unfolded countless times, but the ink didn't look faded, and she was sure it hadn't been written all that long ago.

So then, it was true. Laurie loved Jo. But he hadn't sent the letter, and Beth could tell from the way it ended that he had decided partway through not to tell her yet, but couldn't bring himself to throw it away. He knew he had to wait.

She gently traced the words of his confession with her fingertips, imagining their devoted friend penning them, and then held it to her chest and breathed slowly with her eyes shut. "If only Jo should let herself love back again," she thought to herself. "Oh, please, do let her!"

Beth had never made plans for herself for the future. She was utterly satisfied to stay at home, surrounded by the love and care of her family and their kind neighbors, fulfilled by the beautiful simplicity of her life. But for Jo, she wished a great deal. If Jo was happy, Beth was, too, and she dreamed dreams for her sister's sake, hoping with all her might that Jo would become a great authoress and get to visit the Europe she pined after, though Beth was sure her heart would ache with her gone. Now, Beth pressed Laurie's letter to that heart, and prayed fervently for Jo's happiness, content to let it be her own.

After a moment, she slipped the page back where she had found it, and considered setting the music aside and replacing it with some more that lay out on top of the piano, so that Laurie wouldn't know she had read it. But she chose instead to leave all as she had found it, and began to play a piece she already knew by heart rather than continue looking for the one Laurie had been playing. With any luck, Laurie would hear before he left and think she hadn't looked through his music; but even if he thought she had, Beth decided, she believed he would trust her with his secret.

…

A/N:

This one came from the idea I had that Beth always knew what was going on between Jo and Laurie, right from the start--just because of the way she is. Also, when Laurie sets up the post box in their hedge, Alcott references the gardener's love-letter to Hannah, and says, "How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love-letters that little post-office would hold in the years to come!"

of course, this may refer to all sorts of things--the trick-letter from Brooke, whatever Laurie's friends may have sent Amy, etc.--but I thought it fitting Laurie's letter, though never sent, should be the first.

I know that in all probability Beth would NOT have read that letter, and Laurie probably wouldn't have left it lying about anyway, but Amy's the only one who would really have read it, and a) i didn't want her to, b) she would have done something about it, and c) she probably would have been jealous, which wouldn't have fit in with my story at the moment, much as i like jealous Amy. Also, I realize that the letter sounds a little out of character Laurie-wise--this is intentional, and that would be one reason why he never sent it. I hope i made it clear that it ended up being more like a diary entry than a letter, and I also felt that he would like this sort of thing, judging from the Meg's glove incident.


	11. Chapter 11: Correspondence

A/N: I really liked the bits in the book where it had a series of letters, and you could tell the different characters so wonderfully from how they wrote, so I decided to follow up on the implications Alcott left for lots more correspondence in the P.O. ...

Disclaimer: the Marches and their neighbours and friends were born in the mind of Louisa May Alcott, not my own.

Chapter 11: Correspondence

…

_OVERDUE NOTICE_

ITEM HOLDER: JO MARCH

As Chief Laurence Library Inspector, I must regrettably inform you, Miss March, that your possession of a certain volume in the works of Charles Dickens appears to have overrun its due date. As such, your fine will be the reading of the enclosed works by sundown next, at which point you are summoned to Library Headquarters to discuss the material with yours truly and his highly esteemed grandfather, who claims that his lazy grandson doesn't have anything interesting to say unless you're about. The old fellow also wants his Dickens, if you're quite done, so if you could bring it along that should be capital.

Signed,

CHIEF LAURENCE LIBRARY INSPECTOR

P.S. Has Meg found her glove yet?

...

Dear Laurie,

I would like you to know that I aksept your apollogy of teasing about my clothes pin though I still think it was a mean thing to say. Even Pinokio must have had a nice nose before he started lieing and his nose grew out not up so it really wasn't a clever comparysen anyway. Your nose is nice so you don't know how eksaspirating it is to have a flat one. You would use a clothes pin too if you did.

Yours truly,

AMY CURTIS MARCH

...

Miss Beth:

_Dear Madam,_

I am going to a piano concert this coming week-end, and, finding myself in need of an escort, I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the event. You should not worry yourself about the expense, as I know the performer and have been given free tickets. I am sure you would enjoy the evening immensely, and if Mrs. March will consent to it, I should be very much gratified if you would accept the offer. Laurie wishes to add something, so I shall give him the rest of the page.

Your humble servant,

JAMES LAURENCE

Bethy—

Do go with him, now, he's counting on it, and you'll have a perfectly splendid time. Don't bother about being shy, I've heard the man perform—he's so wonderful you'll forget everything else once he gets up to the instrument, just you wait. It's quite well worth it, you have my word as your loyal,

LAURIE

...

Dear Teddy,

What news! Can you guess what's set to be in the paper tomorrow, my lad? I'm certain you're whooping in triumph as you read this, so quiet down and don't let on, or I'll have _your_ secret out before you can blink. But oh, isn't it marvelous? A whole tale, really truly _published_—just think of the looks on the girls' faces when I tell! You'll have to wait to read it, as they must hear it first, but I'll be along straight after—and don't go and buy another copy, I wish to show you myself, as you weaseled it out of me first. Hurrah for scribbling!

Your almost-authoress,

JO

P.S. Meg's glove remains missing, as well you know. You'd best snatch it if given the chance, though I've enough reason to suspect that between the two of you it won't be back for a while yet, you're that full of sentimental rubbish. Do come round, Teddy, and make him give it back.

...

Dear Mr. Murphy,

I hev receive your letter and know you mean wal, but I must ask you not to send no more, as Miss Jo and Mr. Laurie found the last one, and had a rite laugh, like as not, thinkin' of us old folks. I've often seen you workin' in the Laurence garden in the mornin'. I won't deny you hev a charm and seem a rite gennelman, so perhaps you could drop in fer tea sum time instead of writin'. I mek a good pie, I'm told, and you're welcome to stop by fer a taste. Thank you fer your kind letter,

HANNAH MULLET

...

For Marmee,

I saw this posy in the greenhouse today and thought it looked especially beautiful, but couldn't help thinking it would be more so in your window, Mother. I know Jo has told you all about that, so as long as you don't mind, don't close the curtain please, and I'll take comfort in the sight.

Your loving,

LAURIE

...

Miss Margaret,

Laurie tells me you enjoyed the German song I translated for you last week, so I took the liberty of doing this poem as well, as it seemed the sort of thing you might like. I think it is one of the rare few that does not lose much in translation, though it is true that it no longer rhymes. There is something haunting, I find, about the way the words flow together in English, punctuated here and there by words one of our poets would not have chosen in a love poem, but somehow seem all the more perfect for that. I hope you will enjoy it, as I found it most beautiful and wished to share it—the poet is not widely known here, and I feel the world would benefit greatly from exposure to him.

Yours truly,

JOHN BROOKE

...

TO THE POSTMISTRESS

(PLEASE READ OUTSIDE BEFORE ENTERING THE HOUSE)

Beth, I do hope you're fetching the post today as usual, and Jo hasn't had a sudden fit to take the air, for I'm in need of a fellow conspirator in a plot, and you're just the girl for the job. If you'll please note the rather unusual pen, ink, and paper that ought to be lying on top of this message—if at all possible those need to be smuggled into the March abode without Jo's knowledge or suspicion. I figured you are least suspicious-seeming of the houses' inhabitants, and so it also seems worth the risk of a further smuggle—if you could leave the items somewhere for her to find up garret (preferably where Scrabble and his brood won't find them first) I'd be most grateful and forever in your debt. There are further installments to follow in the plan, and I shall keep you updated as necessary. I am honored to receive the help of such an associate, and thank you most solemnly for your efforts.

Your fellow conspirator,

LAURIE

P.S. I'd also be much obliged if you could tell Jo that I certainly don't know where Meg's glove could be, and haven't the faintest idea what she's on about.

…

A/N: short, yes, but REVIEW, and I'm hoping to get another chapter up in the next day or so...


	12. Chapter 12: The Rival Painters

A/N: I almost abandoned this chapter towards the end, because for some reason I'm just not sure about it, but I eventually finished it and decided to post anyway--however, please consider: it's late and i can't tell if it's worth it anymore, so I apologize if it's rubbish, because I honestly don't know.

Disclaimer: I wonder whether it's LMA's descendents or some random publishing company with the rights on these characters?

Chapter 12: The Rival Painters

…

"Blast!" Jo exclaimed, chasing after the newspaper that blew just too far ahead of her to capture, borne by a teasing wind. When the flapping pages caught briefly against a stone in the road, Jo abandoned her clutch of hat and skirts and dove haphazardly towards it, snatching it up again just in time; for as she dove, another hand reached as well. Rising again, she nearly collided with a tall figure wearing a broad grin, who exclaimed,

"Aha! The very fellow I was hoping to run into—tell me, are you the young authoress soon to be the talk of the town?"

Jo ignored the question and folded the paper neatly under her arm, attempting to straighten her costume before replying, "You sha'n't read a single word, my boy, until my sisters have heard, for I promised they should be the first to know should my scribblings ever publish."

"Did I say that's what I was after?"

"No, but it's written all over your face, and if I know you, you'll try every trick up your sleeve to read it first. Well, I _won't_ cave, and you shall just have to wait your turn." Jo held the ruffled pages firmly, sticking her nose in the air and marching onward.

"Oh, come now, " Laurie said, dropping his wounded expression and falling into step beside her, "you did tell me about it first, and I witnessed its submission."

"It's no fault of mine you were hanging around billiards watching young ladies go into the editor's."

"Jo," Laurie said indignantly, "are you going to lecture about billiards _again_? I thought we'd already settled that matter."

"All right, I won't." Jo relented. "I still wish you wouldn't do such things, as you know," she said, "but today isn't a day for lecturing anyway." She was careful not to look at him, but was unable to keep a smile from creeping into her voice.

"No, indeed—it seems to me to be a day for reading. Pity we haven't anything to read, isn't it?"

"Quite."

"Because, you know, there's a lovely familiar garden just round this bend, and I do think it might be nice to sit for a while. A story would just cap it off, don't you think?"

"Mm, rather."

There was a pause.

"Well?" Laurie prompted.

"You'll have to go find one and leave others to their business."

"Oh, but it wouldn't be half so much fun without you there, Jo dear. I was hoping you'd come and enjoy the reading with me."

"Were you?" She looked at him amusedly.

He turned to her, face full of mischief. "I was," he replied in a low voice, looking into her eyes as he leaned towards her—and before she could blink, he had snatched the paper out from under her protesting arm and set off running down the lane, towards the gate of the Marches' garden.

"Theodore Laurence!" she exclaimed, running after him, heedless of her hat, which went flying. "Give it back!"

Laurie stopped just outside the gate and laughed as she came panting up. He was about to say something when Jo, who had decided not to give him the chance to gall her further, seized the paper in both hands and tugged—Laurie, expecting a delay before the recovery attempt, let go in surprise, but immediately came round and set off after her as she darted through the gate and into the garden, holding the coveted pages aloft.

"Jo March, you can't get away so easy!" he cried, sprinting to get between her and the house. Sure enough, he made it before she did, and forced her into retreat.

"Teddy," she said, fighting to keep her face stern. "Let me by, or you'll never read it!"

He grinned, advancing slowly. "Come, Jo, you know that's a fib. You won't be able to resist the temptation to show your boy—so why not just give in now?"

"No, thank-you, I've said it once and I'll do so again—you'll have to wait."

"I don't want to wait." He looked oddly serious.

"More's the pity, then, isn't it? For you must all the same, as I sha'n't let you have it."

"What if I simply…took it?" and as he spoke Laurie made a dive for the paper, as he was now much closer—but she was too quick, and slipped from his grasp, scampering off through the garden paths. He, of course, immediately up and followed, leaving his hat behind.

A merry chase around the garden ensued, punctuated by much laughter, intermittent shrieks, and several tumbles over the dying rose-bushes. Jo caught sight of Meg watching them through the window, and briefly wondered what she must be thinking at such a want for propriety—but the thought was quickly driven from her head when she almost lost the paper as consequence for her distraction. She promptly snapped back to attention and leaped out of Laurie's reach, heading for Amy's bower—but the damage was done, and he quickly closed the distance, capturing her firmly in his grip and, after a brief tussle, grabbing her story despite resistance.

"Now," he panted cheerfully, "shall we read what our authoress has written?"

Jo flopped down under the bower and held her sides, aching from laughter and exercise. "Teddy," she said breathlessly, "you are the most incorrigible rascal I have ever met!" But she looked rather flushed and happy all the same, and Laurie knew her too well to be worried—she could try to hide it, but he knew she was bursting to show him her story.

He collapsed next to her, leaning on the other side of the bower, so that they were facing each other, legs side by side. Eyes twinkling, He lifted the paper between them, holding it just out of reach—then, to Jo's surprise, dropped it in her lap.

She stared at it for a moment, suspicious. "Is this a trick of some sort?"

He sighed. "Jo, if you truly don't want me to read it, I won't; but I think you wouldn't be sitting here right now if that were the case. Admit it—you're about to explode if you wait a minute longer for someone to read it. You told me first, it's been our secret for a week now, and you were planning to use me as practice before you told the girls all along. Isn't it so?"

Jo couldn't keep herself from grinning, so she threw the paper at him to cover up his smug face. "Wicked boy! Don't look at me like that." She shook her head in grudging admiration. "I don't know how you do it, Teddy, but you always know, and you worm it out of me in the end."

"Thank-you," Laurie said, well pleased. "I take that as a high compliment, coming from you."

"Never mind compliments; just read the dratted thing and tell me what you think," Jo said, impatient for his opinion.

"Yes, ma'am." He opened the paper with a flourish, coming to her story. "_The Rival Painters_," he remarked. "Nice title."

Jo made a noise of assent, trying to look nonchalant as he settled into the grass, silently reading the story she had agonized over. At first she looked away, trying to recall the better points of her tale and wondering whether he would have reached any of them yet; but eventually she let her eyes come to rest upon his face, resolutely damping down the anxiety which naturally arises in us when we wish a close friend to think well of our achievements.

He didn't take long, but he lingered towards the end, and though she couldn't be sure, she thought perhaps that he read the last part over again. She certainly hoped so, as she prided herself on the way the way the story tied up, even after all her characters had expired.

"Jo."

She looked up quickly, and there was a pause as he regarded her above the newspaper, solemn.

"Well done."

She stared at him for a moment, making no move to take the paper he held out to her. "Truly?"

He nodded. "Truly."

For a moment she simply stood, then all at once she laughed and threw her arms around him; nearly toppling Amy's bower over she gave him a swift kiss on the cheek before taking her story and stepping back again, glowing. "Oh, thank-you Teddy, I _am_ glad!"

Laurie gave her a mock bow and gestured towards the house with a melodramatic wave. "Go forth now, brave scribbler, and give thy works to the world!"

Jo went off, beaming, and he watched her until she disappeared into the house, bearing her first published work. Chuckling, he retrieved his hat, and then went on his way, feeling he had made rather a neat thing of it.

…


	13. Chapter 13: Gossip and Kites

A/N: Sorry for the slight delay on this chapter--I was going to upload it last night (which would have been later than usual anyway) but my internet crashed. So I made it extra long.

This one's based off a story Jo told in Little Men, when the boys are trying to make amends to the girls for ruining their party. If you've read that one, especially if you are a Jo/Laurie shipper, (er, why would you be reading this story if you weren't?) you probably know the part. If not, it's not exactly imperative that you do, so that's all right. I believe it probably takes place the summer after they first meet, or spring--so chronologically that's after my chapters 8, 4, and 7, I believe.

Disclaimer: I don't own Little Men either. Aren't you shocked? (oh, and the two lines "What shall I do?" and "I'll show you" are taken straight from Little Men--forgot to mention that when I first put this up.)

Chapter 13: Gossip and Kites

"Jo March! What are you hiding over there?"

Jo, who had been attempting to smuggle a rather bulky object covered in brown paper out the door, whipped around at the sound of Amy's severe voice, hands behind her back and a feigned look of innocence on her face.

"Nothing," she said promptly, trying to look nonchalant.

"That's a fib—I saw it. Are you sneaking out with Laurie again?" Amy demanded, trying to be fierce and only succeeding in sounding petulant. She couldn't help looking rather wistful as well, and Jo might have felt a twinge of regret if she hadn't been annoyed at being caught so close to freedom.

"Never you mind—it isn't any of your concern what I do with Laurie, so run along and leave me be," she commanded.

"I'll tell Marmee."

"Marmee gave me leave to go out this afternoon, and she said you mayn't bother us; so now."

Amy pouted, but remained where she was as Jo turned again to the door, careful to keep the brown-paper object out of sight.

"Marmee don't like it when you order me about," Amy grumbled, unwilling to let Jo have the last word.

"_Doesn't_ like it—don't you have studying to do?" And with that parting shot, Jo successfully slipped through the door, mysterious package and all, leaving her ruffled sister to sigh mournfully at the fun she was to miss. Amy had gained wisdom enough from experience to know that it would be a fruitless endeavor to follow—sooner or later she would be given the slip, and then scolded severely as soon as Jo caught her alone.

But had she looked out the window, she may just have been tempted to follow in spite of past warnings, so curious were Jo's antics. At first she walked boldly down the path, swinging her arms and looking quite pleased to be out in the air—but her easy manner abruptly vanished at a sudden rattling sounded, followed by the appearance of Annie Moffat's snub-nosed face at the window of a carriage that trundled past. Jo glared after it, and glanced down at her brown package with an odd expression, before resolutely stowing it beneath her arm once more and continuing down the lane. She had not advanced far, however, when she met with an enthusiastic Laurie coming to meet her from the other direction, which beaming character did an about-face upon drawing level with his friend, and continued on in the direction she was heading. He, too, bore a strange, angular package, but from his trailed a thick, knotted line that just brushed the ground when he walked. Amy would have been puzzled to see Jo immediately seize this line and shake it at her companion before piling it in his arms, so that it didn't show—but what Jo said and did afterwards, she would neither have heard, nor saw, for just then the two package-clutching adventurers disappeared round a bend in the road, with none but an inquisitive squirrel to witness their activities.

…

"Teddy. Is that squirrel staring at us?"

He gave her an incredulous look. "Are you feeling all right, Jo?"

"_Teddy._ Don't tease. See for yourself—it's been watching us for the past five minutes."

He glanced at the chattering grey creature, raising an amused eyebrow as it immediately bounded back the way they had come, tail waving. "The little fellow was wondering what you've been so intent on hiding from the public and smuggling out of your house, I'll be bound."

Jo frowned. "Let him wonder. And I wouldn't have to smuggle if people didn't laugh so."

"I still can't fathom why you care about this of all things—people laugh at you for most things you do, Jo, and you've never paid them any mind. In fact, I rather think you like it—defying society as you do."

"I do not. I may talk like a boy, have terrible manners, hate calling, and I don't give twopence for fashion and frills, but it's worldliness I defy—society I've found myself outside of unintentionally."

"Yes, but you like that."

"If it were entirely up to me, I couldn't care less. But Meg seems to be making an impression upon me, and I'm attempting to curb my wild ways. Marmee says I should be capable of controlling myself, and I'm not—you don't help much with that, Teddy, else I wouldn't be out here now."

"Jo," Laurie said indignantly, "you make it out as if I'm corrupting you. There's no harm whatever in a bit of innocent fun; you've got something rubbing you, I can tell. Ordinarily you just about jump at the chance to scorn propriety—now you're sermonizing. What's sparked the change?"

She hesitated.

"Aha!" Laurie cried, disturbing several sparrows with his shout, who fluttered off crossly, their scolding lost on the tall boy. "I _knew_ something was bothering you! 'Fess, 'fess, and I'll solve all your problems so you can have fun again."

"No, you won't—you'll laugh at me and tell me I've nothing to worry about," Jo sighed.

"Jo," Laurie said, sounding rather hurt, "I wouldn't laugh if you really minded, you know I wouldn't. Now come, tell all your woes, and I shall take revenge on whatever's been vexing you."

"Well, I can take my own revenge, thank you, but it's just that…I was at the Gardiner's the other day, because Meg left her umbrella there, and I was on my way out anyway, so I said I would get it. One of the maids let me in and I told her not to bother anyone, as I didn't want to socialize, just to get the thing and leave. Only, Annie Moffat was there as well, and she and Sallie were gossiping in the kitchen."

Laurie snorted and looked as if he would like to say something, but didn't interrupt.

"Anyway," Jo continued, "I wouldn't have eavesdropped, as it's rude, and I wanted to leave anyway, but—" she paused, then went on rather ashamedly, "they were talking about me, and I stopped to listen in spite of myself."

"I hope you weren't foolish enough to believe a word they said about you—those girls will say anything for the scandal of it, and if they've ever passed on a bit of truth save by accident, I'll eat my hat." He spoke lightly, but Laurie's face had darkened a bit, and he was angered at the thought of Jo being influenced by worldly gossips.

"Well, I didn't mind anything they said at first, as it was all about what a strange sort of girl I am," she laughed a little, "and as that's true anyway, I couldn't object to it. But they started talking about Meg, then, and whether she'll be out in society soon, and quantities of rubbish, so I was about to go away quietly with the umbrella, but they said…well, they think I've spoilt my family's prospects. They said if I carry on the way I have I'll ruin the Marches—it was all right when I was little, but now I'm fifteen, and what I do gets around in society, apparently. It would be all right if it were only _my_ good name I'm ruining, but I know I vex Meg with my behavior, and I shouldn't be able to live with myself if it's me that keeps her from her castle in the air, Teddy—I don't know what I would do." She looked at him earnestly, trying not to sound too upset, but worried all the same.

Laurie smiled at her gently. "I should have known it was about your family." He sighed. "Have you spoken to Marmee about it?"

"No—I didn't want to worry her."

"Well, don't tell her about it now, anyway; but you should know they're just gossips, Jo—none of it means a thing. You couldn't ruin your family if you tried, for you have something that those girls can't even conceive of; and Meg's more likely than any of us to get her castle, I'm sure of it." He looked at her shrewdly. "But you knew that already—and you never listen to gossips anyway."

Jo said nothing for a minute, then looked away and spoke softly. "I'm afraid that…I'm keeping her from what she wants because I don't want her to leave me. I want her to be happy, but I'm—I'm too selfish to let her go." Despite efforts to keep it steady, her voice trembled a little at the end of the confession, and she blinked several times.

Laurie, seeing the emotion in his friend's eyes, wisely waited a moment for her to regain her composure, then caught her hand and squeezed it kindly. "I know."

They walked like that in silence for several more minutes, solemn but taking comfort in their mutual understanding, until they rounded a bend in the road and came upon a sudden slope leading into a wide clearing; it was invisible from a few steps back the way they had come, but stretched smooth and inviting before them from their current position.

Jo, quite recovered, now peered about carefully to be sure they were alone, and then quickly tore the wrapping off of her mysterious package. It fell away, and she took a spool of rough twine from her pocket, knotting it tightly to the wooden framework of a large, recently made—kite, for that was what the object was. Laurie had already set off across the grass, trailing his behind him, having not wasted time checking for observers as Jo had.

"Come along, Jo!" he called. "The wind's blowing this way—and it's catching wonderfully!"

Jo laughed at the sight of him capering about, keeping the kite aloft and playing with his reel—letting a little more out, and quickly pulling it back in before he set off running again when it began to fall.

She threw her own kite high into the air and raced across the green to join him, relishing in the feel of the wind tugging at her hair and the string in her hands. By the time she reached him, both kites were bobbing and weaving playfully, their tails curling in the breeze.

Gradually they let out more and more line, until the kites were two small specks, batted this way and that against the forget-me-not blue of the sky. The high winds had a mind of their own, and pulled their lines taut most of the time—but every once in a while the kites would flutter and begin to fall rapidly, as the wind, for some unknown reason, suddenly puffed itself out—then they would run until it gathered up its breath again and blew down upon the breathless, laughing friends with renewed vigor, catching the bright flapping triangles all at once and sending them soaring back into the heavens.

These activities continued for about and hour or so, at which point Jo's breath gave out, following a particularly long struggle to persuade her unruly kite to remain airborne. She collapsed onto the ground, lying flat on her back as she panted, her kite mercifully supported by a particularly strong gust.

Laurie threw himself down next to her, and, stretching out, put his free hand behind his head, gazing up at the cloudless sky. He waited quietly while Jo caught her breath, then presently he said, "Well now, was that enough to ruin your family's prospects forever, or shall we work at it a little more?"

She shoved him unceremoniously and he rolled over onto his stomach, lifting himself up on his elbows to grin at her.

"It was great fun, and I fully expected it to be, so stop smirking at me like that." She sat up and glared at him while he untangled himself from his kite string.

"So you'll come again, then?"

"Perhaps."

"I thought so."

Jo, disliking his satisfied tone, quickly added, "Though we are far too old to be flying kites, Teddy."

"One can never be too old to fly a kite. Fashionable young ladies dislike it because their hats fly off and their skirts trip them up, and they get tangled in the line. Now, you're not fashionable, as we know; and you look prettier all tangled and blown about anyway. I believe it's good for you."

Jo opened her mouth, unsure whether to agree on the fashionable point, or to remonstrate over the compliment—but she was spared the decision by a sudden shout of laughter that sounded from a short ways off in the trees.

"Mercy me! There's folks coming for a picnic—and us in quite a state!" Jo exclaimed, looking from the kites to her dress in alarm.

"I thought you enjoyed yourself?"

"I did, but—"

"Then what's there to be ashamed of?"

"Oh, please, Teddy, just help—if word gets back to Meg I'm done for—she caught me running yesterday as well, and whistling this morning. What shall I do?"

Laurie sighed and sat up. "I'll show you," he said, rummaging in his pocket and producing a small knife. He quickly unfolded it and cut the string on Jo's kite first, then his own—and the two eagerly sailed away quicker than you could say Jack Robinson, lost in moments against the blue.

Jo stowed her spool in her pocket and gave him a grateful look, whispering, "I know it's silly, Teddy, but I don't wish to be laughed at just now."

He nodded and handed her the flowers he'd been picking, so it looked as if they were doing something. Just in time, too, for a moment later the advancing party became visible through the trees, and the foremost of the group, a tall lad carrying his coat on his arm, sang out,

"Hullo, there!

"Good afternoon!" Laurie called back. "Out for a walk, are you?"

"A picnic, actually—know any good spots?"

"There's one further that way," Laurie said, pointing through the woods they way he and Jo had come earlier, "by a brook, if you bear a little to your right."

"Excellent! Come along, then," he added to those behind him, and they all tramped off in a merry, chattering row in the direction Laurie had indicated, the first lad leaving with a "Thank you!" over his shoulder. There were a few girls who recognized Jo as they passed, and one who nodded to Laurie, but they were absorbed in their talk, and went on without inquiring into their affairs.

When the last one disappeared from view, Jo gave a sigh of relief, and then suddenly began to laugh, quietly at first, then harder, until she had to hold her sides.

"What on earth's got into you?" Laurie asked, bewildered at the change.

"Can—can you imagine," Jo gasped, "the looks on those girls' faces? If they knew we'd been running about like a couple of ne'er-do-wells, playing kites?"

Laurie chuckled at the thought. "They'd be perfectly scandalized."

" 'Horrified,' more like."

"Terribly affronted."

"Offended no end."

"They'd see it as a slight to their womanhood, witnessing the performances of a rogue like you."

"Wouldn't they just! I should like to see them gasp," Jo said, eyes twinkling as she fought to keep from giggling.

"Now, there's the Jo I know!"

She smiled happily. "I suppose kites are fine after all—but I shall only fly them with you; until I'm an old spinster and no one cares what I do."

"You'll never be a spinster, Jo."

"Oh, but I shall—for what man marries a woman who flies kites?"

"_I_ wouldn't marry a woman who _doesn't_ fly kites."

"Well, then, you shall have a hard time finding a wife, my lad."

Laurie said nothing, only grinned and threw a flower at her as she lay back down and closed her eyes, face turned to the sky.

…


	14. Chapter 14: Fugitive

A/N: this particular chapter (takes place after my chapters 8, 4, 7, and 13) is meant to come with a partner, which will have been inspired by Alcott's lines:

"Who told you?"

"Spirits."

"No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.

Disclaimer: you know the drill.

Chapter 14: Fugitive

...

"Theodore Laurence! Have you been fiddling with that instrument all afternoon?"

"No, sir, I haven't been fiddling; I've been playing."

"Neglecting your studies is what you've been doing, and I can't count the times I've had to make you mind both myself and your tutor. The road to college is paved with _books,_ not piano keys."

Laurie sat, arms crossed and sullen, at the piano, avoiding his angry grandfather's gaze. "Then I'll go to Italy, and play music as I wish, and I sha'n't go to college."

Mr. Laurence set his mouth in a grim line. "You'll get those fancies out of your head, boy. You are going to college, as well you know, and then you shall take up the family business, as your father ought to have done."

"My father hated the business." Laurie tried to keep his tone level and respectful, but his mood had been sour before his grandfather had interrupted him, and it was now threatening to break loose in an unpleasant manner.

"Yes he did, and he ran off with your mother to your beloved Italy-and look where that got them."

"They were happy, and they had me."

"And what of the effect they had on you? You're disobedient and lazy as often as not, and your head is filled with nonsense and dreams of being a great composer, when you should be bearing up like a man and shouldering your responsibilities. I don't know why I'm surprised-your father was just the same."

Laurie jumped to his feet, abandoning all pretense of politesse. "Don't you talk about him that way! He was a good man and you know it. _He _would have let me study music, and live in Italy, and never go to college. _You_ just want to make sure I'm nothing like him, because you can't bear to think of how he left you with my mother! Well, I _am_ like him; I even look like him, everyone says so, and I shall run off as well if I please!"

"Oh you shall, eh? Run, then, and see where it gets you!" Mr. Laurence said, raising his voice, face darkening.

"You think I'll come back if I leave, but I won't!" Laurie threatened.

"Fine! You'd best be about it then, for I won't be waiting up for you."

"Fine! Don't bother, I'll be gone before you know it!"

Laurie stormed out of the room and up the stairs-the cook, butler, and two maids immediately parted without a word to let him by, for they knew that when Master Laurie was in a mood, it was best to let him be until it blew over.

One of the maids, however, poked her head round the door to see how Mr. Laurence was taking his grandson's bad humor. He was facing away from her, looking at a portrait of Laurie's father. After a moment during which he stood utterly still, the maid was about to go quietly on her way again, when suddenly the old man turned to look out the window, and she saw the lines of grief sharply outlined on his face, carved deeply from years of bitter regret, and now renewed with worry.

The maid silently retreated, and said to herself, hurrying down the corridor, "He don't always know how to treat his grandson as he ought, poor man, but Master Laurie worries him so, and he must know the man is trying as hard as ever he can; else the boy will do something rash, I fear."

She had now come to the back door, through the window of which could be seen the gardener, puttering about among the flowerbeds. She slipped out of the great house and made her way across to him, hushing his greeting, and speaking in low tones. He listened with a wry look on his face, nodded several times, and when she was done, replied, "Aye, that I will, miss," and picked up his hoe again as she disappeared back inside.

...

The first thing Laurie did after slamming his door (a little harder than was really necessary) and marching across his room in a temper, was to lean on the windowsill, gazing across at the March house. There were no lights behind the curtains, and he could see no movement through the windows. "Of course they're all out," he thought, "it's midday. Meg will be at the Kings', Jo with Aunt March, Amy at school, and Beth must be at market. It's only me that's stuck here."

He frowned and threw himself into a chair with a sigh of self-pity, thinking of the things his grandfather had said. Laurie knew, deep down, that the old man cared for him terribly, and was only afraid of losing him-but Laurie was a young man, and disliked being scolded like a child and told what to do more than he disliked anything else. He was well beset by wanderlust, and yearned after freedom as ardently as the next boy. So the wise little voice inside his heart that rebuked him gently, and spoke the truth, was well and truly drowned out by the clamoring passions of youth, and he sat and stewed in them until he'd gotten himself into quite the state. Suddenly he jumped up, crying, "I'll be hanged if I stay another night!" and promptly began gathering things into a pile on the rug-penknife, map, matches, muttering angrily as he did so.

Had he been a little less restless, he might have spared a glance back out the window-as it was, he didn't, and so missed an event which would have otherwise piqued his curiosity.

The gardener, who had been steadily hoeing the flowerbeds and raking the bright, wind-scattered leaves, had for the past several minutes been periodically straightening and peering along the lane that ran by the March house. After watching the unmoving scene for a few moments, he would shake his head and resume his work, whistling.

However, just when Laurie stood again in his bedroom and began planning his runaway attempt, the gardener spied something, and casually laid his tools down upon the withering grass before strolling over to the lane, intercepting a small, hooded figure with a bright face and rosy cheeks, bearing a covered basket. The figure, though seemingly rather timid, gave the gardener a smile which quickly turned to puzzlement when the latter, making motions with his hands, relayed some message to her. When he was finished, she looked quite earnest, and thanked him, nodding vigorously before both parted ways; the gardener resuming his post at the flowerbeds, and the basket-bearing girl vanishing into the March house.

The maid with whom we are acquainted, who had caught sight of the tail end of the exchange through a window in the big house, gave a satisfied nod, and hastened off to the kitchen, where she was needed, muttering, "if ever anyone could put that boy right, it's one of them March girls."

...

Several hours later, when it was getting to be quite dark, and the moon had climbed a ways into the sky to watch the activities of our two families, a quiet figure with a hump on its back slipped down to the lane through the shadows of the Laurence house. It moved swiftly despite the hump, however, and soon drew level with the lamp at the end of the Marches' property, which, for reasons unknown, had been lit. It did not cast too bright a light, but all the same the figure had to pass through a weak sphere that illuminated the shape on its back to be, not a hump, but a sack-and the figure, of course, to be Laurie.

Just as the runaway was about to duck back out of the revealing light and be off down the lane, a sudden soft cry brought him up short-

"Laurie!"

He peered about for a moment, and presently spotted the source of the cry-Beth was seated on the Marches' doorstep, bundled up against the cold that seems so very far away during the Indian summer afternoons of September, but sets in with a vengeance with the disppearance of the sun. She quickly stood and hurried over to his side, taking his hand in a confiding little gesture and saying,

"Don't run away, please. We'll miss you so."

Laurie looked down in surprise at the little apparition before him.

"What were you doing out in the cold alone, Bethy?"

"Waiting for you. I did hope you wouldn't come, but then I knew you would. The others have all gone to the Hummels'-I told them my head hurt, and that I'd like to stay home to-night. So you see," she said, lowering her voice, "it's all right, no one else knows."

"But how did _you_ know?"

"Spirits," she said, so solemnly that for a moment he believed her; and then he burst out laughing.

"No, really, who told you? It was Grandfather, wasn't it, the interfering old fellow."

"No, it wasn't. But I can't tell you, I promised I wouldn't."

"Now, don't cover up for him, Beth, if he's been going behind my back I should like to know about it."

"He hasn't! He never told me, not a word, and you must believe it, Laurie," she said, looking worried that the thought might stir him up.

"All right," he said, relenting at her earnest face, "I do believe it. But I must go all the same," he said seriously, "and you mustn't tell anyone you've seen me."

Beth looked at him, face pinched with concern. "Why must you go?"

"Because Grandfather needs to be taught a lesson, that's why. And I want to see the world, Beth-I'm sick of books and study and being locked up all day. I need some air." He held her hand a moment longer, and then patted it gently. "Don't worry, I'll be back someday. Goodbye, Bethy," and he turned away, perhaps less eagerly than before, but determined to carry out his plan.

However, he had only gone a few steps when-"Jo will be terribly upset, you know."

He stopped again. Beth held her breath and waited anxiously, knowing what was going through his mind, and hoping that it would be enough to deter him.

"Will she?" he said softly, without turning around.

"Yes. She wouldn't want you to leave her."

"I don't want to leave her either," he said, so quietly that Beth almost didn't hear him. He stood, thinking of the cold and lonely world which he had been about to plunge into, and the warm and loving one which he had been about to leave-and he turned back to her.

There was a pause, and after a moment, deeming her treatment a success, Beth stepped forward and took his hand once more, saying with her angelic smile and motherly little way, "If you'd like to stay, I'll make you some tea."

...

A/N: Hey look, they've updated the review button. So I really think you should, you know, test it out...just a few words, and you could make my day... ;D


	15. Chapter 15: Tales of Pilgrims' Doings

A/N: a P.C. newspaper.

Chapter 15: Tales of Pilgrims' Doings

…

**POET'S CORNER**

…

**A Gentleman in Peril**

…

I come to tell a tale of woe

A pitiful occurrence—

A most serious and sober yarn

I give you my assurance.

.

It was a time not three days past,

When walking by the stream

Your fellow clubber Snod of grass

Was halted by a scream.

.

He whipped about in great concern

And then, "What ho!" cried he,

For swirling in a spiteful pool—

N. Winkle, howling, "Help me!"

.

This gentlemanly sir, so mild,

Was really in a strop

It shook me to the core to hear

His animated "yawp!"

.

But closer bent I to observe

This strange and foreign scene

And thus I came to understand

Why our fellow's face was green—

.

The oars were flown, a leak had sprung,

The boat was swiftly filling

Our young protagonist's sad fate

Appeared to be a spilling.

.

But! Mournful as my story is,

It has a happy ending

And glad am I to give report

Of Winkle's steady mending.

.

For when Yours Truly saw this sight,

He grabbed a nearby rail

And offered up its noble length

To quiet Winkle's wails.

.

With splashes many and struggles brave

Our friend was hauled ashore

And, lesson learned, he staunchly vows,

To boat alone no more.

-A. SNODGRASS

…

**THE ACTRESS AND THE SPY**

…

The girl stood behind the curtain, still dressed in full Arabian costume, her pulse quickening as wave after wave of applause reached her through the thick fabric. She lingered a moment, eyes closed, recalling the night's performance—it had been a memorable one. She breathed in deeply, then hurried offstage, and, ignoring the chatter of the other actors in the anteroom, she swathed herself in a long black cloak and a bulky scarf, effectively concealing her distinctive stage clothes. She didn't hear the whispers that followed her as she slipped out the back door and into the night, but the young man who stood in the corner, watching, did.

"Clothilde did wonderfully to-night, _non_?"

"_Oui, c'est vrai_. She was spectacular, the best I've ever seen her. It's a shame she never stays—I wonder where she disappears to so quickly? She never says goodbye."

"Oh, don't you know? Her father won't let her act—she tells him she's got a cleaning job here, or something of the sort. Can you imagine? Our Clothilde, the pride of the company, a cleaning wench?"

"_Pourquoi? _Why doesn't he let her act? He must see she has talent."

"_Mais oui,_ how could he not? But the man's wife was an actress, in Paris, and she died on the stage, poor woman. Her father won't let her near a stage after that. 'Tis rumored Clothilde looks just like her mother, though I never saw her myself."

"_Mon Dieu! _How tragic!"

"_Oui_."

The young man who had been listening quietly left the corner, taking his coat with him.

Closing the door behind him, he was just in time to see a small, thickly bundled figure disappearing around the corner of the long main street. He stared after it for a moment, then turned about briskly and hastened down a side street.

He strode quickly through the dark night, turning up his collar against the chill, and his long legs brought him to his destination with speed. It was a small house, the windows shuttered and dark. He stopped on the doorstep, hand raised to the knocker—but something stayed his hand, and he stood, poised in indecision. Just then, however, a noise interrupted him, and he turned to see someone coming through the gate. Before he had time to hide, even if he had thought to, the person had started, and frozen herself—for it was Clothilde, from the theater, and she was staring at him.

"_Que est-ce que tu veux?" _she asked. "What do you want?"

"I—nothing," he said confusedly.

"What are you doing here? I saw you at the theater, were you watching me? Who are you?" she demanded.

"Jacques, my name is Jacques. I'm sorry, I'll go…" he looked slightly ashamed of himself, and made to force his way past her; but she seized the sleeve of his coat.

"Did my father send you? _Dites-moi la verite!"_

"_Vraiment? _Truly?" he paused. "_Oui._"

Clothilde's face hardened with anger. "How much?" she spat.

"What?"

"How much did he pay you to spy on me?"

"_Cinq_."

She let go of his coat disgustedly. "Very well then, Monsieur _Jacques_. Go on. Tell him I'm an actress—tell him I've been lying and sneaking around. Tell him I broke my word. Go!"

Jacques looked down at the girl, who appeared to be quivering with rage—but upon closer inspection, he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes by the light of the stars. He shook his head slowly and reached into his pocket. "No," he said, drawing out five francs and holding them out to Clothilde. "I'll go. I'll find your father tomorrow, and tell him you're just the cleaning girl, as you told him. Keep the money."

"I don't want it." Her voice was shaking.

He looked at her for a moment. "Then give it to your father, and tell him you got a tip," he said, slipping the money into her pocket. He pushed past her and opened the gate once more.

"You're not going to turn me in?" she said sarcastically, and he paused.

"No."

She glared at him for a moment, then, after a quick glance at the ground, asked, "Why not?"

"You were too good." He said simply. "You deserve the stage."

Clothilde looked away, and the tears in her eyes grew heavier, threatened to fall. When she had blinked them away, Jacques was gone.

She turned back to the door alone, and crept in silently, turning as she closed it for one last look at the stars.

-S. PICKWICK

…

**AN ACCOUNT OF SICKNESS AND RECOVERY**

As some may know, our esteemed fellow Tupman has been laid up with a terrible cold all week, and it grieved us all deeply to hear the sneezes that issued from the depths of his sickbed. However, yesterday morning he rose to find naught wrong with his health but a slight weakness of limb, and has been getting along splendidly since. A well-wisher would like to propose a pause at this point in the meeting for a club cheer. Hip-hip-hurrah!

…

[Editor's Note: Tupman would like to add that he's sorry he hasn't been able to write this week, but that he hopes the club enjoys the pie he baked in place of a literary contribution.]

…

**ADVERTISEMENTS**

…

Mrs. M. M., a most respectable local matron, wishes to post notice of this Wednesday's meeting of the Knitting Guild, which organization has accepted the application of the honorable Sam Weller. As the demand for socks from the front never fails, all are requested to continue their efforts throughout the week and are expected to arrive with a current project.

…

[Editor's Note: Mr. Snodgrass is available for assistance in Mr. Weller's instruction, should he find it undesirable to arrive at the gathering completely clueless.]

…

An anonymous supporter wishes to report the miraculous retrieval of one red-and-blue kite, sans tail (the unfortunate item probably being stuck up a tree). Should the owner desire to declare himself, well and good—if he would prefer to retain his anonymity, he may recover the object through contact with the firm _Laurence & Laurence._

…

Algebra class for young ladies has been rescheduled for Mondays. Students are requested to arrive with a clean slate and as much fervor for mathematics as can be mustered—though after the efforts of one Mr. Davis, difficulty is understandable.

…

Philosophy Lecture to be held at eight o'clock sharp, Thursday next, March residence. Neighbors included in the invitation. Our expert on the subject being absent, we will turn to Socrates for advice—Plato already being present, albeit in stone form and without anything below his neck.

…

The Hummel Community is once more in need of assistance, and all are required to make an appearance this evening—with the exception of Mr. Tupman, who spends far too much time there anyway, though he may come if he likes.

…

**AN INVITATION**

Ladies and Gentilman, I heerby invite you all to a tea party the party I mean is to be held on Monday afternoon and Beth please dont bring the cats as I am worryed they will climb on the table like last time. It is to be held in the house of Laurence because Mr. Laurence Mr. Weller I mean said I could and yes I did ask Jo so dont scold and he was verry nice about it. Please wear your nice things and it is at 3 oclock sharp.

…

**HINTS**

A.S. is requested to get a pair of his own gloves, instead of ruining S.P.'s. T.T., please keep the cats out of A.S.'s ink, for everyone's sake (though it would be helpful if Snodgrass wouldn't leave it out in the first place). N.W.'s complexion would stay clearer if he didn't hog the sweet stuff at breakfast. S.W. is reminded that Winkle doesn't like to be teased about his nose. S.P., Annie Moffat looks perfectly ridiculous with bows on her nightcap, so don't fret.

…

Weekly Report

Meg—Good

Jo—Truant

Beth—Very Good

Amy—Improving

Laurie—Truant

[Editor's Note: The second and fifth reports above refer to one specific incident, not the entire week, and as such should not count as a "weekly" report. However, this opinion was outvoted by protesting club members.]

…

A/N: Yes, I have finally posted a new chapter! (I'm SO sorry it's taken so long, but I had an awful case of writer's block...it was bad. Hopefully it's cured now, though. and thank you, all you new people who reviewed!) I'm a little displeased with Meg's story in this chapter, because I really couldn't get her writing style at all...but i think in the long run it's all right. I don't know. you tell me. what do you think? please review!


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